mllffitl 


i  II 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


NINETEENTH    CENTURY 
ENGLISH  PROSE 

CRITICAL  ESSAYS 


EDITED   WITH   INTRODUCTIONS  AND  NOTES 

BY 

THOMAS  H.  DICKINSON,  Ph.D. 

ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR    OF  ENGLISH,  UNIVERSITY  OF  WISCONSIN 

AND 

FREDERICK  W.  ROE,  Ph.D. 

ASSISTANT    PROFESSOR    OF   ENGLISH,    UNIVERSITY  OF  WISCONSIN 


>     j    ' 


NEW  YORK  ■:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
THOMAS  H.  DICKINSON  AND  FREDERICK  W.  ROE 


Entered  at  Stationers'   Hall,  London 


Nineteenth  Century  English  Prosk 
w.  p.     7 


*.  *    * 


* 


\ 

X 

\ 
\ 

AMI 


i 


)    5 
PREFACE 


In  preparing  the  present  work  the  editors  have  re- 
stricted themselves  to  a  single  type  of  literary  expres- 
sion,— the  critical  essay.  They  have  endeavored  to 
trace,  in  a  series  of  ten  selected  essays,  the  development 
of  English  criticism  in  the  nineteenth  century.  In 
^  choosing  the  material  they  have  been  influenced  by 
something  more  than  mere  style.  An  underlying  co- 
herence in  content,  typical  of  the  thought  of  the  era  in 
question,  may  be  traced  throughout. 

The  book  is  designed  to  furnish  a  series  of  essays 
covering  a  definite  period  and  exhibiting  the  individu- 
ality in  each  author's  method  of  criticism.    The  subject- 
^  -   matter  in  these  selections  provides  interesting  material 
for  intensive  study  and  class-room  discussion,  and  each 
essay  is  an  example  of  excellent,  though  varying,  English 
style.     It  has  not  been  the  intention  of  the  editors  to 
I    place  the   different   authors  represented   on   the   same 
x  level,  either  as  critics  or  as  stylists.    Nor  do  they  claim 
^*    to   have,   necessarily,   selected   the   best  essay  of  each 
writer;  they  have  sought,  rather,  to  choose  that  one 
which  appears  to  them  to  be  most  typical  of  the  author's 
critical  principles,  and,  at  the  same  time,  representative 
of  the  critical  tendency  of  his  age. 

A  volume  compiled  to  serve  the  ends  outlined  above 

3 


4  PREFACE 

needs  few  accessories.  The  introductions,  mainly  bio- 
graphical, are  brief;  the  notes  treat  only  those  matters 
upon  which  investigation  by  the  student  would  be 
difficult  or  unprofitable. 

With  the  exception  of  certain  omitted  passages  from 
the  poetry  of  Arnold  and  Browning  in  the  Bagehot 
essay,  the  selections  are  given  in  their  entirety. 

Acknowledgments  should  be  made  to  the  Macmillan 
Company  for  permission  to  use  the  revised  form  of 
Walter  Pater's  essay  on  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  to  the 
Travelers'  Insurance  Company  for  permission  to  print 
Walter  Bagehot 's  essay  on  Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and 
Browning. 

T.  H.  D. 
F.  W.  R. 

Madison,  Wisconsin. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

William  Hazlitt 

The  English  Novelists 7 

Thomas  Carlyle 

BosweWs  Life  of  Johnson        57 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

Moore's  Life  o]  Lord  Byron 156 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 
Swift 207 

John  Henry  Newman 

Literature 242 

Walter  Bagehot 

Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and  Browning      .    .    .     274 

Walter  Horatio  Pater 

Leonardo  da  Vinci 338 

Leslie  Stephen 

Sir  Waller  Scott 369 

John  Morley 
Macaulay 4°9 

Matthew  Arnold 

Emerson       449 

Notes 483 

5 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

[William  Hazlitt,  the  son  of  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  was  born 
in  Kent,  April  10,  1778,  and  spent  two  years  of  his  youth  in 
America.  At  fifteen  Hazlitt  entered  the  Unitarian  College  at 
Hackney,  but  as  theology  was  not  to  his  purpose,  he  remained 
only  two  years.  Travel,  cogitation  on  the  rights  of  man,  and  at- 
tempts at  portrait  painting  occupied  the  next  ten  years  of  his  life. 
Not  until  1805,  when  he  published  his  Essay  on  the  Principles  of 
Human  Action,  did  he  discover  that  his  true  bent  was  toward  lit- 
erature. From  this  time  on  he  became  increasingly  known  as  a 
rapid-fire  critic  on  drama,  and  literature,  and  manners.  In  The 
Round  Table,  Table  Talk,  and  The  Spirit  of  the  Age  is  found  the 
commentator  on  men  and  affairs.  In  The  Characters  of  Shake- 
spear's  Plays,  and  The  English  Comic  Writers  is  revealed  the 
sagacious  literary  critic.  Perhaps  largely  on  account  of  his  own 
unregulated  deportment,  Hazlitt's  life  was  not  a  happy  one.  He 
died  in  1830.] 

The  following  essay  entitled  The  English  Novelists  is 
the  sixth  in  the  series  of  lectures  on  The  English  Comic 
Writers  delivered  by  Hazlitt  in  18 18.  In  its  present  form 
it  is  practically  an  adaptation  of  an  earlier  article,  en- 
titled Standard  Novels  and  Romances  and  published  in 
The  Edinburgh  Review,  February,  1815,  as  a  review  of 
Madame  D'Arblay's  The  Wanderer.  There  is  nothing 
particularly  striking  in  the  structure  of  the  essay.  It 
follows  in  regular  historical  order  the  development  of  the 
novel  in  its  beginnings  in  Spain  and  in  England.  Yet  the 
design  of  this  essay  is  more  coherent  than  that  of  manv 

7 


8  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

of  Hazlitt's  essays.  Much  of  Hazlitt's  journalistic  work 
required  a  haste  in  critical  judgment  and  in  formulation 
of  material  that  entirely  precluded  the  larger  excellences 
of  architecture.  In  the  preparation  of  this  series,  how- 
ever, the  author  was  given  time  for  his  task,  it  was  pleas- 
ing to  him,  and  the  result  is  an  excellently  balanced  and 
clearly  designed  set  of  essays. 

When  Hazlitt  put  into  book  form  his  series  of  lectures 
on  The  English  Comic  Writers,  he  was  in  his  forty-second 
year.  These  essays  may  be  considered  the  best  expression 
of  his  mature  years.  They  evidence  a  grown  man's  com- 
mand of  his  faculties  and  avoid  that  exaggeration  of  the 
characteristic  that  has  perverted  the  later  work  of  both 
Hazlitt  and  Thackeray.  Hazlitt  was  thoroughly  an 
individual  genius.  Though  by  no  means  an  anarchist, 
he  was,  even  in  artistic  matters,  a  vigorous  controversial- 
ist. As  such  he  was  quite  in  harmony  with  his  time,  for 
his  age  was  essentially  a  hard-hitting  age.  The  regime 
of  Gifford  on  The  Quarterly  Review  had  put  the  writers 
and  the  critics  at  swords'  points.  Keats  was  hounded  to 
an  early  grave  and  Byron  was  moved  to  the  stinging  re- 
tort of  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  by  the  very 
forces  that  kept  alive  the  biting  wit  of  Hazlitt. 

With  Hazlitt  it  was  not,  as  with  Byron,  a  case  of  de- 
fending an  outraged  muse  against  the  assaults  of  the 
critical  enemy.  Hazlitt  wrote  no  pure  literature  he  cared 
to  defend.  A  critic  himself,  he  set  himself  into  opposition 
with  the  critics  for  sheer  love  of  combat.  As  we  read 
Hazlitt  we  are  impressed  with  the  immense  vitality  of 
the  man.  His  thought  and  style  were  dynamic.  He 
cared  for  a  subject  only  so  far  as  it  had  life  in  it.  To 
him  that  which  did  not  arouse  enthusiasm  had  no  ex- 
istence. He  was  passive  in  nothing;  opinions  to  him  were 
slogans;  success  he  gauged  in  terms  of  effect. 

Hazlitt's  own  life  is  a  clear  index  to  his  art.  Character- 
istically  he   was  vigorous   and   independent.     First   a 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  9 

revolutionary,  then  a  Bonapartist,  he  tried  successively 
preaching,  painting,  poetry,  and  ended  his  life  an  un- 
questioned authority  on  all  the  arts.  Hack  writer, 
philosopher,  and  grammarian,  his  memory  was  so  reten- 
tive and  his  common  sense  so  unerring  that  he  drew  truth 
even  from  errors  of  fact,  and  on  narrow  but  carefully 
selected  reading  gave  the  impression  of  encyclopedic 
learning. 

Hazlitt's  style  has  all  the  merits  and  defects  of  the 
author's  profuse  vitality.  It  is  unregulated,  unpruned, 
rich  in  allusion,  lacking  in  reticence,  but  capable  of  mar- 
velously  delicate  distinctions.  No  critic's  sense  of  differ- 
entiae has  been  more  keen  and  veracious.  The  major 
effect  of  the  style  is  one  of  unusual  power  and  remarkable 
suggestiveness.  Though  it  is  in  the  main  concerned  only 
with  thoughts,  now  and  then  an  emotion  thrills  through  a 
sentence  and  reveals  in  the  author  a  mastery  of  pathos  and 
the  dramatic.  Little  felicities  of  expression  are  strewn 
lavishly  amid  the  richer  fruits  of  his  invention.  "He 
finds  his  fortune  mellowing  in  the  wintry  smiles  of  Mrs. 
Tabitha  Bramble,"  he  writes  in  one  place,  and  again, 
"Mrs.  Radcliffe  touched  the  trembling  chords  of  the 
imagination,  making  wild  music  there."  With  no  less 
facility  did  Hazlitt  weave  quotations  into  the  texture  of 
his  composition  and  make  the  borrowed  form  appear  to 
be  in  its  native  element. 

Hazlitt's  quick  mind  and  nimble  wit  were  at  their  best 
in  a  hurried  summary  of  an  author's  work.  Sometimes 
in  a  hasty  catalogue  of  apt  epithets  he  would  lay  open 
before  the  reader  an  author's  entire  work.  Of  all  of 
these  perhaps  the  best  is  contained  in  the  lecture  on  Scott, 
in  which,  in  a  long  series,  there  passes  before  the  reader's 
eye  the  procession  of  Scott's  imagination.  Hazlitt  is 
most  truly  himself  in  the  collection  of  essays  entitled 
The  Round  Table  and  Table  Talk.  There  "a  lesser 
Johnson,"  untrammelled  by  artistic  tenets  of  design  and 


IO  NINETEENTH  CENTURY    PROSE 

reserve,  he  lays  down  the  law  to  loving  auditors.  He  is 
only  slightly  more  formal  in  The  English  Comic  Writers. 
The  subject  itself  provided  its  own  outline  but  it  is  saved 
from  baldness  by  the  richness  of  Hazlitt's  fund  of  literary 
knowledge  and  by  his  very  deep  and  genuine  interest 
in  the  problems  of  humanity.  We  like  Hazlitt  best  when 
he  stops  in  the  midst  of  his  study  to  philosophize  on  the 
nature  of  men  and  women.  For  then  most  truly  we  see 
standing  forth  the  stormy  and  passion-beaten  figure  of 
the  man  himself,  a  prototype  of  Carlyle  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  Thackeray  on  the  other. 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS 

There  is  an  exclamation  in  one  of  Gray's  letters — 
"Be  mine  to  read  eternal  new  romances  of  Marivaux 
and  Crebillon!"  If  I  did  not  utter  a  similar  aspiration 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  last  new  novel  which  I  read  (I 

5  would  not  give  offence  by  being  more  particular  as  to  the 
name)  it  was  not  from  any  want  of  affection  for  the  class 
of  writing  to  which  it  belongs;  for  without  going  so  far 
as  the  celebrated  French  philosopher,  who  thought  that 
more  was  to  be  learnt  from  good  novels  and  romances 

io  than  from  the  gravest  treatises  on  history  and  morality, 
yet  there  are  few  works  to  which  I  am  oftener  tempted 
to  turn  for  profit  or  delight,  than  to  the  standard  pro- 
ductions in  this  species  of  composition.  We  find  there 
a  close  imitation  of  men  and  manners;  we  see  the  very 

15  web  and  texture  of  society  as  it  really  exists,  and  as  we 
meet  with  it  when  we  come  into  the  world.  If  poetry 
has  "something  more  divine  in  it,"  this  savors  more 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  II 

of  humanity.  We  are  brought  acquainted  with  the  mo- 
tives and  characters  of  mankind,  imbibe  our  notions  of 
virtue  and  vice  from  practical  examples,  and  are  taught 
a  knowledge  of  the  world  through  the  airy  medium  of 
romance.  As  a  record  of  past  manners  and  opinions,  5 
too,  such  writings  afford  the  best  and  fullest  information. 
For  example,  I  should  be  at  a  loss  where  to  find  in  any 
authentic  documents  of  the  same  period  so  satisfactory 
an  account  of  the  general  state  of  society,  and  of  moral, 
political,  and  religious  feeling  in  the  reign  of  George  II  jo 
as  we  meet  with  in  the  Adventures  of  Joseph  Andrews 
and  his  friend  Mr.  Abraham  Adams.  This  work,  in- 
deed, I  take  to  be  a  perfect  piece  of  statistics  in  its  kind. 
In  looking  into  any  regular  history  of  that  period,  into  a 
learned  and  eloquent  charge  to  a  grand  jury  or  the  clergy  i> 
cf  a  diocese,  or  into  a  tract  on  controversial  divinity,  we 
should  hear  only  of  the  ascendency  of  the  Protestant  suc- 
cession, the  horrors  of  Popery,  the  triumph  of  civil  and 
religious  liberty,  the  wisdom  and  moderation  of  the  sover- 
eign, the  happiness  of  the  subject,  and  the  flourishing  20 
state  of  manufactures  and  commerce.  But  if  we  really 
wish  to  know  what  all  these  fine-sounding  names  come 
to,  we  cannot  do  better  than  turn  to  the  works  of  those 
who,  having  no  other  object  than  to  imitate  nature, 
could  only  hope  for  success  from  the  fidelity  of  their  25 
pictures;  and  were  bound  (in  self-defence)  to  reduce 
the  boasts  of  vague  theorists  and  the  exaggerations  of 
angry  disputants  to  the  mortifying  standard  of  reality. 
Extremes  are  said  to  meet;  and  the  works  of  imagina- 
tion, as  they  are  called,  sometimes  come  the  nearest  to  30 


12  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

truth  and  nature.  Fielding,  in  speaking  on  this  subject, 
and  vindicating  the  use  and  dignity  of  the  style  of  writing 
in  which  he  excelled  against  the  loftier  pretensions  of 
professed  historians,  says,  "that  in  their  productions 
5  nothing  is  true  but  the  names  and  dates,  whereas  in  his 
everything  is  true  but  the  names  and  dates."  If  so,  he 
has  the  advantage  on  his  side. 

I  will  here  confess,  however,  that  I  am  a  little  prej- 
udiced on  the  point  in  question;  and  that  the  effect  of 

10  many  fine  speculations  has  been  lost  upon  me,  from  an 
early  familiarity  with  the  most  striking  passages  in  the 
work  to  which  I  have  just  alluded.  Thus  nothing  can 
be  more  captivating  than  the  description  somewhere 
given  by  Mr.  Burke  of  the  indissoluble  connection  be- 

15  tween  learning  and  nobility,  and  of  the  respect  univer- 
sally paid  by  wealth  to  piety  and  morals.  But  the  effect 
of  this  ideal  representation  has  always  been  spoiled  by 
my  recollection  of  Parson  Adams  sitting  over  his  cup  of 
ale  in  Sir  Thomas  Booby's  kitchen.     F.chard  On  the 

20  Contempt  0}  the  Clergy  is,  in  like  manner,  a  very  good 
book,  and  "worthy  of  all  acceptation";  but  somehow 
an  unlucky  impression  of  the  reality  of  Parson  Trulliber 
involuntarily  checks  the  emotions  of  respect  to  which  it 
might  otherwise  give  rise;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the 

25  lecture  which  Lady  Booby  reads  to  Lawyer  Scout  on 
the  immediate  expulsion  of  Joseph  and  Fanny  from  the 
parish,  casts  no  very  favorable  light  on  the  flattering 
accounts  of  our  practical  jurisprudence  which  are  to  be 
found  in  Blackstone  or  De  Lolme.     The  most  moral 

30  writers,  after  all,  are  those  who  do  not  pretend  to  in- 


THE   ENGLISH   NOVELIST  1 3 

culcate  any  moral.  The  professed  moralist  almost  un- 
avoidably degenerates  into  the  partisan  of  a  system;  and 
the  philosopher  is  too  apt  to  warp  the  evidence  to  his 
own  purpose.  But  the  painter  of  manners  gives  the  facts 
of  human  nature,  and  leaves  us  to  draw  the  inference;  if  5 
we  are  not  able  to  do  this,  or  do  it  ill,  at  least  it  is  our  own 
fault. 

The  first-rate  writers  in  this  class,  of  course,  are  few; 
but  those  few  we  may  reckon  among  the  greatest  orna- 
ments and  best  benefactors  of  our  kind.  There  is  a  cer-  10 
tain  set  of  them  who,  as  it  were,  take  their  rank  by  the 
side  of  reality,  and  are  appealed  to  as  evidence  on  all 
questions  concerning  human  nature.  The  principal  of 
these  are  Cervantes  and  Le  Sage,  who  may  be  considered 
as  having  been  naturalized  among  ourselves;  and,  of  15 
native  English  growth,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Richardson, 
and  Sterne.1  As  this  is  a  department  of  criticism  which 
deserves  more  attention  than  has  been  usually  bestowed 
upon  it,  I  shall  here  venture  to  recur  (not  from  choice  but 
necessity)  to  what  I  have  said  upon  it  in  a  well-known  20 
periodical  publication;  2  and  endeavor  to  contribute  my 
mite  towards  settling  the  standard  of  excellence,  both  as 
to  degree  and  kind,  in  these  several  writers. 

I  shall  begin  with  the  history  of  the  renowned  Don 
Quixote  de  la   Mancha,  who  presents  something  more  25 

1  It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  the  author  of  Robinson  Crusoe 
was  also  an  Englishman.  His  other  works,  such  as  Life  of 
Colonel  fack,  etc.,  are  of  the  same  cast,  and  leave  an  impression  on 
the  mind  more  like  that  of  things  than  words. 

2  The  Edinburgh  Review. 


14  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

stately,  more  romantic,  and  at  the  same  time  more  real 
to  the  imagination,  than  any  other  hero  upon  record. 
His  lineaments,  his  accouterments,  his  pasteboard  vizor, 
are  familiar  to  us;  and  Mambrino's  helmet  still  glitters 
5  in  the  sun!    We  not  only  feel  the  greatest  love  and  ven- 
eration for  the  knight  himself,  but  a  certain  respect  for 
all  those  connected  with  him,  the  curate  and  Master 
Nicolas  the  barber,  Sancho  and  Dapple,  and  even  for 
Rosinante's  leanness  and  his  errors. — Perhaps  there  is 
10  no  work  which  combines  so  much  whimsical  invention 
with  such  an  air  of  truth.     Its  popularity  is  almost  un- 
equalled; and  yet  its  merits  have  not  been  sufficiently 
understood.    The  story  is  the  least  part  of  them;  though 
the  blunders  of  Sancho,  and  the  unlucky  adventures  of 

15  his  master,  are  what  naturally  catch  the  attention  of  the 
majority  of  readers.  The  pathos  and  dignity  of  the  sen- 
timents are  often  disguised  under  the  ludicrousness  of 
the  subject,  and  provoke  laughter  when  they  might  well 
draw  tears.     The  character  of  Don  Quixote  himself  is 

20  one  of  the  most  perfect  disinterestedness.  He  is  an  en- 
thusiast of  the  most  amiable  kind;  of  a  nature  equally 
open,  gentle,  and  generous;  a  lover  of  truth  and  justice; 
and  one  who  had  brooded  over  the  fine  dreams  of  chiv- 
alry and  romance,  till  they  had  robbed  him  of  himself, 

25  and  cheated  his  brain  into  a  belief  of  their  reality.  There 
cannot  be  a  greater  mistake  than  to  consider  Don  Quixote 
as  a  merely  satirical  work,  or  as  a  vulgar  attempt  to  ex- 
plode "the  long-forgotten  order  of  chivalry."  There 
could  be  no  need  to  explode  what  no  longer  existed.    Be- 

3°  sides,  Cervantes  himself  was  a  man  of  the  most  sanguine 


THE   ENGLISH   NOVELISTS  1 5 

and  enthusiastic  temperament;  and  even  through  the 
crazed  and  battered  figure  of  the  knight,  the  spirit  of 
chivalry  shines  out  with  undiminished  luster;  as  if  the 
author  had  half-designed  to  revive  the  examples  of  past 
ages,  and  once  more  "witch  the  world  with  noble  horse-  5 
manship."  Oh!  if  ever  the  moldering  flame  of  Spanish 
liberty  is  destined  to  break  forth,  wrapping  the  tyrant 
and  the  tyranny  in  one  consuming  blaze,  that  the  spark 
of  generous  sentiment  and  romantic  enterprise,  from 
which  it  must  be  kindled,  has  not  been  quite  extinguished,  10 
will  perhaps  be  owing  to  thee,  Cervantes.,  and  to  thy 
Don  Quixote! 

The  character  of  Sancho  is  not  more  admirable  in 
itself,  than  as  a  relief  to  that  of  the  knight.  The  contrast 
is  as  picturesque  and  striking  as  that  between  the  figures  15 
of  Rosinante  and  Dapple.  Never  was  there  so  complete 
a  partie  qitarrie: — they  answer  to  one  another  at  all 
points.  Nothing  need  surpass  the  truth  of  physiognomy 
in  the  description  of  the  master  and  man,  both  as  to 
body  and  mind;  the  one  lean  and  tall,  the  other  round  20 
and  short;  the  one  heroical  and  courteous,  the  other 
selfish  and  servile;  the  one  full  of  high-flown  fancies,  the 
other  a  bag  of  proverbs;  the  one  always  starting  some 
romantic  scheme,  the  other  trying  to  keep  to  the  safe 
side  of  custom  and  tradition.  The  gradual  ascendancy,  25 
however,  obtained  by  Don  Quixote  over  Sancho,  is  as 
finely  managed  as  it  is  characteristic.  Credulity  and  a 
love  of  the  marvelous  are  as  natural  to  ignorance  as 
selfishness  and  cunning.  Sancho  by  degrees  becomes  a 
kind  of  lay-brother  of  the  order;  acquires  a  taste  for  ad-  30 


1 6  .NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

ventures  in  his  own  way,  and  is  made  all  but  an  entire 
convert  by  the  discovery  of  the  hundred  crowns  in  one 
of  his  most  comfortless  journeys.  Towards  the  end,  his 
regret  at  being  forced  to  give  up  the  pursuit  of  knight- 
5  errantry,  almost  equals  his  master's;  and  he  seizes  the 
proposal  of  Don  Quixote  for  them  to  turn  shepherds  with 
the  greatest  avidity — still  applying  it  in  his  own  fashion; 
for  while  the  Don  is  ingeniously  torturing  the  names  of 
his  humble  acquaintance  into  classical  terminations,  and 

10  contriving  scenes  of  gallantry  and  song,  Sancho  exclaims, 
"Oh,  what  delicate  wooden  spoons  shall  I  carve!  what 
crumbs  and  cream  shall  I  devour!" — forgetting,  in  his 
milk  and  fruits,  the  pullets  and  geese  at  Camacho's  wed- 
ding. 

15  This  intuitive  perception  of  the  hidden  analogies  of 
things,  or,  as  it  may  be  called,  this  instinct  of  the  imagi- 
nation, is,  perhaps,  what  stamps  the  character  of  genius 
on  the  productions  of  art  more  than  any  other  circum- 
stance: for  it  works  unconsciously,  like  nature,  and  re- 

20  ceives  its  impressions  from  a  kind  of  inspiration.  There 
is  as  much  of  this  indistinct  keeping  and  involuntary 
unity  of  purpose  in  Cervantes  as  in  any  author  whatever. 
Something  of  the  same  unsettled,  rambling  humor  ex- 
tends itself  to  all  the  subordinate  parts  and  characters 

25  of  the  work.  Thus  we  find  the  curate  confidentially  in- 
forming Don  Quixote,  that  if  he  could  get  the  ear  of  the 
government,  he  has  something  of  considerable  impor- 
tance to  propose  for  the  good  of  the  State;  and  our  ad- 
venturer afterwards  (in  the  course  of  his  peregrinations) 

30  meets  with  a  young  gentleman  who  is  a  candidate  for 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  1 7 

poetical  honors,  with  a  mad  lover,  a  forsaken  damsel,  a 
Mahometan  lady  converted  to  the  Christian  faith,  etc. — 
all  delineated  with  the  same  truth,  wildness,  and  deli- 
cacy of  fancy.  The  whole  work  breathes  that  air  of 
romance,  that  aspiration  after  imaginary  good,  that 
indescribable  longing  after  something  more  than  we 
possess,  that  in  all  places  and  in  all  conditions  of  life, 


still  prompts  the  eternal  sigh, 


For  which  we  wish  to  live,  or  dare  to  die  I  " 

The  leading  characters  in  Don  Quixote  are  strictly  in-  10 
dividuals;  that  is,  they  do  not  so  much  belong  to,  as  form 
a  class  by  themselves.  In  other  words,  the  actions  and 
manners  of  the  chief  dramatis  personae  do  not  arise  out 
of  the  actions  and  manners  of  those  around  them,  or  the 
situation  of  life  in  which  they  are  placed,  but  out  of  the  15 
peculiar  dispositions  of  the  persons  themselves,  operated 
upon  by  certain  impulses  of  caprice  and  accident.  Yet 
these  impulses  are  so  true  to  nature,  and  their  operation 
so  exactly  described,  that  we  not  only  recognize  the  fidel- 
ity of  the  representation,  but  recognize  it  with  all  the  20 
advantages  of  novelty  superadded.  They  are  in  the  best 
sense  originals,  namely,  in  the  sense  in  which  Nature  has 
her  originals.  They  are  unlike  anything  we  have  seen 
before — may  be  said  to  be  purely  ideal;  and  yet  identify 
themselves  more  readily  with  our  imagination,  and  are  25 
retained  more  strongly  in  memory,  than  perhaps  any 
others:  they  are  never  lost  in  the  crowd.  One  test  of  the 
truth  of  this  ideal  painting  is  the  number  of  allusions 
which  Don  Quixote  has  furnished  to  the  whole  of  civi- 
Prose — 1 


1 8  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

lized  Europe;  that  is  to  say,  of  appropriate  cases  and 
striking  illustrations  of  the  universal  principles  of  our 
nature.  The  detached  incidents  and  occasional  descrip- 
tions of  human  life  are  more  familiar  and  obvious;  so 
5  that  we  have  nearly  the  same  insight  here  given  us  into 
the  characters  of  innkeepers,  barmaids,  ostlers,  and 
puppet  showmen,  that  we  have  in  Fielding.  There  is  a 
much  greater  mixture,  however,  of  the  pathetic  and 
sentimental  with  the  quaint  and  humorous,  than  there 

10  ever  is  in  Fielding.  I  might  instance  the  story  of  the 
countryman  whom  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  met  in 
their  doubtful  search  after  Dulcinea,  driving  his  mules  to 
plough  at  break  of  day,  and  "singing  the  ancient  ballad 
of  Roncesvalles " !    The  episodes,  which  are  frequently 

15  introduced,  are  excellent,  but  have,  upon  the  whole, 
been  overrated.  They  derive  their  interest  from  their 
connection  with  the  main  story.  We  are  so  pleased  with 
that,  that  we  are  disposed  to  receive  pleasure  from  every- 
thing else.     Compared,  for  instance,  with  the  serious 

20  tales  in  Boccaccio,  they  are  slight  and  somewhat  super- 
ficial. That  of  Marcella,  the  fair  shepherdess,  is,  I 
think,  the  best.  I  shall  only  add,  that  Don  Quixote  was, 
at  the  time  it  was  published,  an  entirely  original  work  in 
its  kind,  and  that  the  author  claims  the  highest  honor 

25  which  can  belong  to  one,  that  of  being  the  inventor  of  a 
new  style  of  writing.  I  have  never  read  his  Galatea,  nor 
his  Loves  oj  Persiles  and  Sigismunda,  though  I  have  often 
meant  to  do  it,  and  I  hope  to  do  so  yet.  Perhaps  there 
is  a  reason  lurking  at  the  bottom  of  this  dilatoriness:  I 

30  am  quite  sure  the  reading  of  these  works  could  not  make 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  1 9 

me  think  higher  of  the  author  of  Don  Quixote,  and  it 
might,  for  a  moment  or  two,  make  me  think  less. 

There  is  another  Spanish  novel,  Guzman  d'Alfarache, 
nearly  of  the  same  age  as  Don  Quixote,  and  of  great 
genius,  though  it  can  hardly  be  ranked  as  a  novel  or  a  5 
work  of  imagination.  It  is  a  series  of  strange,  uncon- 
nected adventures,  rather  dryly  told,  but  accompanied  by 
the  most  severe  and  sarcastic  commentary.  The  satire, 
the  wit,  the  eloquence,  and  reasoning,  are  of  the  most 
potent  kind:  but  they  are  didactic  rather  than  dramatic.  10 
They  would  suit  a  homily  or  a  pasquinade  as  well  or 
better  than  a  romance.  Still  there  are  in  this  extraor- 
dinary book  occasional  sketches  of  character  and  hu- 
morous descriptions,  to  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
produce  anything  superior.  This  work,  which  is  hardly  15 
known  in  this  country  except  by  name,  has  the  credit, 
without  any  reason,  of  being  the  original  of  Gil  Bias. 
There  is  one  incident  the  same,  that  of  the  unsavory 
ragout,  which  is  served  up  for  supper  at  the  inn.  In 
all  other  respects  these  two  works  are  the  very  reverse  of  20 
each  other,  both  in  their  excellences  and  defects. — 
Lazarillo  de  Tormes  has  been  more  read  than  the  Spanish 
Rogue,  and  is  a  work  more  readable,  on  this  acount 
among  others,  that  it  is  contained  in  a  duodecimo  in- 
stead of  a  folio  volume.  This,  however,  is  long  enough,  25 
considering  that  it  treats  of  only  one  subject,  that  of 
eating,  or  rather  the  possibility  of  living  without  eating. 
Famine  is  here  framed  into  an  art,  and  feasting  is  ban- 
ished far  hence.  The  hero's  time  and  thoughts  are  taken 
up  in  a  thousand  shifts  to  procure  a  dinner;  and  that  30 


20  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

failing,  in  tampering  with  his  stomach  till  supper  time, 
when  being  forced  to  go  supperless  to  bed,  he  comforts 
himself  with  the  hopes  of  a  breakfast,  the  next  morning 
of  which  being  again  disappointed,  he  reserves  his  ap- 
5  petite  for  a  luncheon,  and  then  has  to  stave  it  off  again 
by  some  meager  excuse  or  other  till  dinner;  and  so  on, 
by  a  perpetual  adjournment  of  this  necessary  process, 
through  the  four-and-twenty  hours  round.  The  quantity 
of  food  proper  to  keep  body  and  soul  together  is  reduced 

10  to  a  minimum;  and  the  most  uninviting  morsels  with 
which  Lazarillo  meets  once  a  week  as  a  godsend,  are  pam- 
pered into  the  most  sumptuous  fare  by  a  long  course  of 
inanition.  The  scene  of  this  novel  could  be  laid  nowhere 
so  properly  as  in  Spain,  that  land  of  priestcraft  and 

15  Doverty,  where  hunger  seems  to  be  the  ruling  passion, 
and  starving  the  order  of  the  day. 

Gil  Bias  has,  next  to  Don  Quixote,  been  more  generally 
read  and  admired  than  any  other  novel;  and  in  one  sense 
deservedly  so:  for  it  is  at  the  head  of  its  class,  though 

20  that  class  is  very  different  from,  and  I  should  say  in- 
ferior to  the  other.  There  is  little  individual  character 
in  Gil  Bias.  The  author  is  a  describer  of  manners,  and 
not  of  character.  He  does  not  take  the  elements  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  work  them  up  into  new  combinations 

25  (which  is  the  excellence  of  Don  Quixote);  nor  trace  the 
peculiar  and  shifting  shades  of  folly  and  knavery  as  they 
are  to  be  found  in  real  life  (like  Fielding):  but  he  takes 
off,  as  it  were,  the  general,  habitual  impression  which 
circumstances  make  on  certain  conditions  of  life,  and 

30  molds  all  his  characters  accordingly.     All  the  persons 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  21 

whom  he  introduces  carry  about  with  them  the  badge  of 
their  profession,  and  you  see  little  more  of  them  than 
their  costume.  He  describes  men  as  belonging  to  dis- 
tinct classes  in  society;  not  as  they  are  in  themselves,  or 
with  the  individual  differences  which  are  always  to  be  5 
discovered  in  nature.  His  hero,  in  particular,  has  no 
character  but  that  of  the  successive  circumstances  in 
which  he  is  placed.  His  priests  are  only  described  as 
priests:  his  valets,  his  players,  his  women,  his  courtiers 
and  his  sharpers,  are  all  alike.  Nothing  can  well  ex-  10 
ceed  the  monotony  of  the  work  in  this  respect: — at  the 
same  time  that  nothing  can  exceed  the  truth  and  pre- 
cision with  which  the  general  manners  of  these  different 
characters  are  preserved,  nor  the  felicity  of  the  particular 
traits  by  which  their  common  foibles  are  brought  out.  15 
Thus  the  Archbishop  of  Granada  will  remain  an  ever- 
lasting memento  of  the  weakness  of  human  vanity;  and 
the  account  of  Gil  Bias's  legacy,  of  the  uncertainty  of 
human  expectations.  This  novel  is  also  deficient  in 
the  fable  as  well  as  in  the  characters.  It  is  not  a  regularly  20 
constructed  story;  but  a  series  of  amusing  adventures 
told  with  equal  gaiety  and  good  sense,  and  in  the  most 
graceful  style  imaginable. 

It  has  been  usual  to  class  our  own  great  novelists  as 
imitators  of  one  or  other  of  these  two  writers.  Fielding,  25 
no  doubt,  is  more  like  Don  Quixote  than  Gil  Bias;  Smol- 
lett is  more  like  Gil  Bias  than  Don  Quixote;  but  there  is 
not  much  resemblance  in  either  case.  Sterne's  Tristram 
Shandy  is  a  more  direct  instance  of  imitation.  Richard- 
son can  scarcely  be  called  an  imitator  of  any  one;  or  if  30 


22  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

he  is,  it  is  of  the  sentimental  refinement  of  Marivaux,  or 
of  the  verbose  gallantry  of  the  writers  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 
There  is  very  little  to  warrant  the  common  idea  that 
5  Fielding  was  an  imitator  of  Cervantes,  except  his  own 
declaration  of  such  an  intention  in  the  title-page  of 
Joseph  Andrews,  the  romantic  turn  of  the  character  of 
Parson  Adams  (the  only  romantic  character  in  his  works), 
and  the  proverbial  humor  of  Partridge,  which  is  kept  up 

10  only  for  a  few  pages.  Fielding's  novels  are,  in  general, 
thoroughly  his  own;  and  they  are  thoroughly  English. 
What  they  are  most  remarkable  for,  is  neither  sentiment, 
nor  imagination,  nor  wit,  nor  even  humor,  though  there 
is  an  immense  deal  of  this  last  quality;  but  profound 

15  knowledge  of  human  nature,  at  least  of  English  nature, 
and  masterly  pictures  of  the  characters  of  men  as  he  saw 
them  existing.  This  quality  distinguishes  all  his  works, 
and  is  shown  almost  equally  in  all  of  them.  As  a  painter 
of  real  life,  he  was  equal  to  Hogarth;  as  a  mere  observer 

20  of  human  nature,  he  was  little  inferior  to  Shakespeare, 
though  without  any  of  the  genius  and  poetical  qualities 
of  his  mind.  His  humor  is  less  rich  and  laughable  than 
Smollett's;  his  wit  as  often  misses  as  hits;  he  has  none 
of  the  fine  pathos  of  Richardson  or  Sterne;  but  he  has 

25  brought  together  a  greater  variety  of  characters  in  com- 
mon life,  marked  with  more  distinct  peculiarities,  and 
without  an  atom  of  caricature,  than  any  other  novel 
writer  whatever.  The  extreme  subtlety  of  observation 
on  the  springs  of  human  conduct  in  ordinary  characters, 

30  is  only  equaled  by  the  ingenuity  of  contrivance  in  bring- 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  23 

ing  those  springs  into  play,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  lay 
open  their  smallest  irregularity.  The  detection  is  always 
complete,  and  made  with  the  certainty  and  skill  of  a 
philosophical  experiment,  and  the  obviousness  and  fa- 
miliarity of  a  casual  observation.  The  truth  of  the  imi-  5 
tation  is  indeed  so  great,  that  it  has  been  argued  that 
Fielding  must  have  had  his  materials  ready-made  to  his 
hands,  and  was  merely  a  transcriber  of  local  manners 
and  individual  habits.  For  this  conjecture,  however, 
there  seems  to  be  no  foundation.  His  representations,  10 
it  is  true,  are  local  and  individual;  but  they  are  not  the 
less  profound  and  conclusive.  The  feeling  of  the  gen- 
eral principles  of  human  nature  operating  in  particular 
circumstances,  is  always  intense,  and  uppermost  in  his 
mind;  and  he  makes  use  of  incident  and  situation  only  15 
to  bring  out  character. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  give  any  illustrations. 
Tom  Jones  is  full  of  them.  There  is  the  account,  for 
example,  of  the  gratitude  of  the  Elder  Blifil  to  his  brother, 
for  assisting  him  to  obtain  the  fortune  of  Miss  Bridget  20 
Al worthy  by  marriage;  and  of  the  gratitude  of  the  poor 
in  his  neighborhood  to  Alworthy  himself,  who  had  done 
so  much  good  in  the  country  that  he  had  made  every 
one  in  it  his  enemy.  There  is  the  account  of  the  Latin 
dialogues  between  Partridge  and  his  maid,  of  the  as-  25 
sault  made  on  him  during  one  of  these  by  Mrs.  Partridge, 
and  the  severe  bruises  he  patiently  received  on  that  oc- 
casion, after  which  the  parish  of  Little  Baddington  rung 
with  the  story,  that  the  schoolmaster  had  killed  his  wife. 
There  is  the  exquisite  keeping  in  the  character  of  Blifil,  3° 


24  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

and  the  want  of  it  in  that  of  Jones.  There  is  the  grada- 
tion in  the  lovers  of  Molly  Seagrim,  the  philosopher 
Square  succeeding  to  Tom  Jones,  who  again  finds  that 
he  himself  had  succeeded  to  the  accomplished  Will 
5  Barnes  who  had  the  first  possession  of  her  person,  and 
had  still  possession  of  her  heart,  Jones  being  only  the 
instrument  of  her  vanity,  as  Square  was  of  her  interest. 
Then  there  is  the  discreet  honesty  of  Black  George,  the 
learning  of  Thwackum  and  Square,  and  the  profundity 

io  of  Squire  Western,  who  considered  it  as  a  physical  im- 
possibility that  his  daughter  should  fall  in  love  with  Tom 
Jones.  We  have  also  that  gentleman's  disputes  with 
his  sister,  and  the  inimitable  appeal  of  that  lady  to  her 
niece:  "I  was  never  so  handsome  as  you,  Sophy;  yet  I 

15  had  something  of  you  formerly.  I  was  called  the  cruel 
Parthenissa.  Kingdoms  and  states,  as  Tully  Cicero  says, 
undergo  alteration,  and  so  must  the  human  form!" 
The  adventure  of  the  same  lady  with  the  highwayman, 
who  robbed  her  of  her  jewels  while  he  complimented  her 

20  beauty,  ought  not  to  be  passed  over;  nor  that  of  Sophia 
and  her  muff,  nor  the  reserved  coquetry  of  her  cousin 
Fitzpatrick,  nor  the  description  of  Lady  Bellaston,  nor 
the  modest  overtures  of  the  pretty  widow  Hunt,  nor  the 
indiscreet  babblings  of  Mrs.  Honour.     The  moral  of 

25  this  book  has  been  objected  to  without  much  reason; 
but  a  more  serious  objection  has  been  made  to  the  want 
of  refinement  and  elegance  in  two  principal  characters. 
We  never  feel  this  objection,  indeed,  while  we  are  read- 
ing the  book;  but  at  other  times  we  have  something  like 

30  a  lurking  suspicion  that  Jones  was  but  an  awkward 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  25 

fellow,  and  Sophia  a  pretty  simpleton.  I  do  not  know 
how  to  account  for  this  effect,  unless  it  is  that  Fielding's 
constantly  assuring  us  of  the  beauty  of  his  hero,  and  the 
good  sense  of  his  heroine,  at  last  produces  a  distrust  of 
both.  The  story  of  Tom  Jones  is  allowed  to  be  unrivaled;  5 
and  it  is  this  circumstance,  together  with  the  vast  variety 
of  characters,  that  has  given  the  History  of  a  Foundling 
so  decided  a  preference  over  Fielding's  other  novels. 
The  characters  themselves,  both  in  Amelia  and  Joseph 
Andrews,  are  quite  equal  to  any  of  those  in  Tom  Jones.  10 
The  account  of  Miss  Matthews  and  Ensign  Hibbert  in 
the  former  of  these, — the  way  in  which  that  lady  recon- 
ciles herself  to  the  death  of  her  father, — the  inflexible 
Colonel  Bath,  the  insipid  Mrs.  James,  the  complaisant 
Colonel  Trent,  the  demure,  sly,  intriguing,  equivocal  15 
Mrs.  Bennet,  the  lord  who  is  her  seducer,  and  who  at- 
tempts afterwards  to  seduce  Amelia  by  the  same  me- 
chanical process  of  a  concert  ticket,  a  book,  and  the 
disguise  of  a  greatcoat,- — his  little,  fat,  short-nosed,  red- 
faced,  good-humored  accomplice,  the  keeper  of  the  lodg-  20 
ing  house,  who,  having  no  pretensions  to  gallantry  herself, 
has  a  disinterested  delight  in  forwarding  the  intrigues 
and  pleasures  of  others  (to  say  nothing  of  honest  At- 
kinson, the  story  of  the  miniature  picture  of  Amelia,  and 
the  hashed  mutton,  which  are  in  a  different  style),  are  .5 
masterpieces  of  description.  The  whole  scene  at  the 
lodging  house,  the  masquerade,  etc.,  in  Amelia,  are  equal 
in  interest  to  the  parallel  scenes  in  Tom  Jones,  and  even 
more  refined  in  the  knowledge  of  character.  For  in- 
stance, Mrs.  Bennet  is  superior  to  Mrs.  Fitzpatrick  in  30 


26  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

her  own  way.  The  uncertainty  in  which  the  event  of 
her  interview  with  her  former  seducer  is  left,  is  admi- 
rable. Fielding  was  a  master  of  what  may  be  calied  the 
double  entendre  of  character,  and  surprises  you  no  less 
5  by  what  he  leaves  in  the  dark  (hardly  known  to  the  per- 
sons themselves)  than  by  the  unexpected  discoveries  he 
makes  of  the  real  traits  and  circumstances  in  a  character 
with  which,  till  then,  you  find  you  were  unacquainted. 
There  is  nothing  at  all  heroic,  however,  in  the  usual 
to  style  of  his  delineations.  He  does  not  draw  lofty  char- 
acters or  strong  passions;  all  his  persons  are  of  the  ordi- 
nary stature  as  to  intellect,  and  possess  little  elevation  of 
fancy,  or  energy  of  purpose.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Parson 
Adams  is  his  finest  character.  It  is  equally  true  to  nature 
15  and  more  ideal  than  any  of  the  others.  Its  unsuspecting 
simplicity  makes  it  not  only  more  amiable,  but  doubly 
amusing,  by  gratifying  the  sense  of  superior  sagacity  in 
the  reader.  Our  laughing  at  him  does  not  once  lessen 
our  respect  for  him.  His  declaring  that  he  would  will- 
so  ingly  walk  ten  miles  to  fetch  his  sermon  on  vanity, 
merely  to  convince  Wilson  of  his  thorough  contempt  of 
this  vice,  and  his  consoling  himself  for  the  loss  of  his 
^Eschylus  by  suddenly  recollecting  that  he  could  not  read 
it  if  he  had  it,  because  it  is  dark,  are  among  the  finest 
25  touches  of  naivete.  The  night  adventures  at  Lady 
Booby's  with  Beau  Didapper  and  the  amiable  Slipslop 
are  the  most  ludicrous;  and  that  with  the  huntsman, 
who  draws  off  the  hounds  from  the  poor  parson  because 
they  would  be  spoiled  by  following  vermin,  the  most 
30  profound.     Fielding  did  not  often  repeat  himself,  but 


THE   ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  27 

Dr.  Harrison,  in  Amelia,  may  be  considered  as  a  varia- 
tion of  the  character  of  Adams;  so  also  is  Goldsmith's 
Vicar  of  Wakefield;  and  the  latter  part  of  that  work, 
which  sets  out  so  delightfully,  an  almost  entire  plagia- 
rism from  Wilson's  account  of  himself,  and  Adams's  5 
domestic  history. 

Smollett's  first  novel,  Roderick  Random,  which  is  also 
his  best,  appeared  about  the  same  time  as  Fielding's 
Tom  Jones,  and  yet  it  has  a  much  more  modern  air  with 
it;  but  this  may  be  accounted  for  from  the  circumstance  10 
that  Smollett  was  quite  a  young  man  at  the  time,  whereas 
Fielding's  manner  must  have  been  formed  long  before. 
The  style  of  Roderick  Random  is  more  easy  and  flowing 
than  that  of  Tom  Jones;  the  incidents  follow  one  another 
more  rapidly  (though,  it  must  be  confessed,  they  never  15 
come  in  such  a  throng,  or  are  brought  out  with  the  same 
dramatic  effect);  the  humor  is  broader,  and  as  effectual; 
and  there  is  very  nearly,  if  not  quite,  an  equal  interest 
excited  by  the  story.  What,  then,  is  it  that  gives  the 
superiority  to  Fielding?  It  is  the  superior  insight  into  20 
the  springs  of  human  character,  and  the  constant  de- 
velopment of  that  character  through  every  change  of 
circumstance.  Smollett's  humor  often  arises  from  the 
situation  of  the  persons,  or  the  peculiarity  of  their  ex- 
ternal appearance;  as,  from  Roderick  Random's  carroty  25 
locks,  which  hung  down  over  his  shoulders  like  a  pound 
of  candles,  or  Strap's  ignorance  of  London,  and  the 
blunders  that  follow  from  it.  There  is  a  tone  of  vul- 
garity about  all  his  productions.  The  incidents  fre- 
quently  resemble    detached    anecdotes    taken    from    a  30 


v 


28  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

newspaper  or  magazine;  and,  like  those  in  Gil  Bias, 
might  happen  to  a  hundred  other  characters.  He  ex- 
hibits the  ridiculous  accidents  and  reverses  to  which 
human  life  is  liable,  not  "the  stuff"  of  which  it  is  com- 
5  posed.  He  seldom  probes  to  the  quick,  or  penetrates 
beyond  the  surface;  and,  therefore,  he  leaves  no  stings  in 
the  minds  of  his  readers,  and  in  this  respect  is  far  less 
interesting  than  Fielding.  His  novels  always  enliven, 
and  never  tire  us;  we  take  them  up  with  pleasure,  and 

io  lay  them  down  without  any  strong  feeling  of  regret. 
We  look  on  and  laugh,  as  spectators  of  a  highly  amusing 
scene,  without  closing  in  with  the  combatants,  or  being 
made  parties  in  the  event.  We  read  Roderick  Random 
as  an  entertaining  story,  for  the  particular  accidents  and 

15  modes  of  life  which  it  describes  have  ceased  to  exist; 
but  we  regard  Tom  Jones  as  a  real  history,  because  the 
author  never  stops  short  of  those  essential  principles 
which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  all  our  actions,  and  in  which 
we  feel  an  immediate  interest — intus  et  in  cute.    Smollett 

20  excels  most  as  the  lively  caricaturist :  Fielding  as  the  exact 
painter  and  profound  metaphysician.  I  am  far  from 
maintaining  that  this  account  applies  uniformly  to  the 
productions  of  these  two  writers;  but  I  think  that,  as 
far  as  they  essentially  differ,  what  I  have  stated  is  the 

25  general  distinction  between  them.  Roderick  Random  is 
the  purest  of  Smollett's  novels:  I  mean  in  point  of  style 
and  description.  Most  of  the  incidents  and  characters 
are  supposed  to  have  been  taken  from  the  events  of  his 
own  life;  and  are,  therefore,  truer  to  nature.    There  is 

30  a  rude  conception  of  generosity  in  some  of  his  characters, 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  29 

of  which  Fielding  seems  to  have  been  incapable,  his 
amiable  persons  being  merely  good-natured.    It  is  owing 
to  this  that  Strap  is  superior  to  Partridge;  as  there  is  a 
heartiness  and  warmth  of  feeling  in  some  of  the  scenes 
between  Lieutenant  Bowling  and  his  nephew,  which  is    5 
beyond  Fielding's  power  of  impassioned  writing.     The 
whole  of  the  scene  on  shipboard  is  a  most  admirable 
and  striking  picture,  and,  I  imagine,  very  little  if  at  all 
exaggerated,  though  the  interest  it  excites  is  of  a  very 
unpleasant  kind  because  the  irritation  and  resistance  to  10 
petty  oppression  can  be  of  no  avail.    The  picture  of  the 
little  profligate  French  friar,  who  was  Roderick's  travel- 
ing companion,  and  of  whom  he  always  kept  to  the  wind 
ward  is   one   of   Smollett's   most   masterly   sketches. — 
Peregrine    Pickle   is    no    great    favorite    of   mine,    and  15 
Launcelot  Greaves  was  not  worthy  of  the  genius  of  the 
author. 

Humphry  Clinker  and  Count  Fathom  are  both  equally 
admirable  in  their  way.  Perhaps  the  former  is  the  most 
pleasant  gossiping  novel  that  was  ever  written;  that  20 
which  gives  the  most  pleasure  with  the  least  effort  to 
the  reader.  It  is  quite  as  amusing  as  going  the  journey 
could  have  been;  and  we  have  just  as  good  an  idea  of 
what  happened  on  the  road  as  if  we  had  been  of  the  party. 
Humphry  Clinker  himself  is  exquisite;  and  his  sweet  25 
heart,  Winifred  Jenkins,  not  much  behind  him.  Mat- 
thew Bramble,  though  not  altogether  original,  is  ex- 
cellently supported,  and  seems  to  have  been  the  prototype 
of  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  in  the  Rivals.  But  Lismahago 
is  the  flower  of  the  flock.    His  tenaciousness  in  argument  30 


30  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

is  not  so  delightful  as  the  relaxation  of  his  logical  se- 
verity, when  he  finds  his  fortune  mellowing  in  the  wintry 
smiles  of  Mrs.  Tabitha  Bramble.  This  is  the  best  pre- 
served, and   most   severe  of  all   Smollett's  characters. 

5  The  resemblance  to  Don  Quixote  is  only  just  enough  to 
make  it  interesting  to  the  critical  reader,  without  giving 
offense  to  anybody  else.  The  indecency  and  filth  in  this 
novel,  are  what  must  be  allowed  to  all  Smollett's  writ- 
ings.— The  subject  and  characters  in  Count  Fathom  are, 

10  in  general,  exceedingly  disgusting:  the  story  is  also  spun 
out  to  a  degree  of  tediousness  in  the  serious  and  senti- 
mental parts;  but  there  is  more  power  of  writing  oc- 
casionally shown  in  it  than  in  any  of  his  works.  I  need 
only  refer  to  the  fine  and  bitter  irony  of  the  Count's 

IS  address  to  the  country  of  his  ancestors  on  his  landing 
in  England;  to  the  robber  scene  in  the  forest,  which  has 
never  been  surpassed;  to  the  Parisian  swindler  who  per- 
sonates a  raw  English  country  squire  (Western  is  tame 
in  the  comparison);  and  to  the  story  of  the  seduction  in 

20  the  west  of  England.  It  would  be  difficult  to  point  out, 
in  any  author,  passages  written  with  more  force  and 
mastery  than  these. 

It  is  not  a  very  difficult  undertaking  to  class  Fielding 
or  Smollett; — the  one  as  an  observer  of  the  characters 

25  of  human  life,  the  other  as  a  describer  of  its  various 
eccentricities.  But  it  is  by  no  means  so  easy  to  dispose 
of  Richardson,  who  was  neither  an  observer  of  the  one 
nor  a  describer  of  the  other,  but  who  seemed  to  spin  his 
materials  entirely  out  of  his  own  brain,  as  if  there  had 

30  been  nothing  existing  in  the  world  beyond  the  little 


THE   ENGLISH   NOVELISTS  3 1 

room  in  which  he  sat  writing.  There  is  an  artificial 
reality  about  his  works  which  is  nowhere  else  to  be  met 
with.  They  have  the  romantic  air  of  a  pure  fiction,  with 
the  literal  minuteness  of  a  common  diary.  The  author 
had  the  strongest  matter-of-fact  imagination  that  ever  5 
existed,  and  wrote  the  oddest  mixture  of  poetry  and 
prose.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  taken  advantage  of 
anything  in  actual  nature  from  one  end  of  his  works  to 
the  other;  and  yet,  throughout  all  his  works,  voluminous 
as  they  are  (and  this,  to  be  sure,  is  one  reason  why  they  10 
are  so),  he  sets  about  describing  every  object  and  trans- 
action, as  if  the  whole  had  been  given  in  on  evidence 
by  an  eyewitness.  This  kind  of  high  finishing  from 
imagination  is  an  anomaly  in  the  history  of  human  genius; 
and  certainly  nothing  so  fine  was  ever  produced  by  the  15 
same  accumulation  of  minute  parts.  There  is  not  the 
least  distraction,  the  least  forgetfulness  of  the  end — 
every  circumstance  is  made  to  tell.  I  cannot  agree  that 
this  exactness  of  detail  produces  heaviness;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  gives  an  appearance  of  truth,  and  a  positive  20 
interest  to  the  story;  and  we  listen  with  the  same  attention 
as  we  should  to  the  particulars  of  a  confidential  com- 
munication. I  at  one  time  used  to  think  some  parts  of 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  rather  trifling  and  tedious,  es- 
pecially the  long  description  of  Miss  Harriet  Byron's  25 
wedding  clothes,  till  I  was  told  of  two  young  ladies  who 
had  severally  copied  out  the  whole  of  that  very  descrip- 
tion for  their  own  private  gratification.  After  that  I 
could  not  blame  the  author. 

The  effect  of  reading  this  work  is  like  an  increase  of  30 


32  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

kindred.  You  find  yourself  all  of  a  sudden  introduced 
into  the  midst  of  a  large  family,  with  aunts  and  cousins 
to  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  and  grandmothers 
both  by  the  father's  and  mother's  side;  and  a  very  odd 
5  set  of  people  they  are,  but  people  whose  real  existence 
and  personal  identity  you  can  no  more  dispute  than 
your  own  senses,  for  you  see  and  hear  all  that  they  do  or 
say.  What  is  still  more  extraordinary,  all  this  extreme 
elaborateness  in  working  out  the  story  seems  to  have  cost 

10  the  author  nothing;  for,  it  is  said,  that  the  published 
works  are  mere  abridgments.  I  have  heard  (though 
this  I  suspect  must  be  a  pleasant  exaggeration)  that 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  was  originally  written  in  eight- 
and-twenty  volumes. 

15  Pamela  is  the  first  of  Richardson's  productions,  and 
the  very  child  of  his  brain.  Taking  the  general  idea  of 
the  character  of  a  modest  and  beautiful  country  girl, 
and  of  the  ordinary  situation  in  which  she  is  placed,  he 
makes  out  all  the  rest,  even  to  the  smallest  circumstance, 

20  by  the  mere  force  of  a  reasoning  imagination.  It  would 
seem  as  if  a  step  lost,  would  be  as  fatal  here  as  in  a 
mathematical  demonstration.  The  development  of  the 
character  is  the  most  simple,  and  comes  the  nearest  to 
nature  that  it  can  do,  without  being  the  same  thing. 

25  The  interest  of  the  story  increases  with  the  dawn  of  un- 
derstanding and  reflection  in  the  heroine:  her  sentiments 
gradually  expand  themselves,  like  opening  flowers.  She 
writes  better  every  time  and  acquires  a  confidence  in 
herself,  just  as  a  girl  would  do,  in  writing  such  letters 

30  in  such  circumstances;  and  yet  it  is  certain  that  no  girl 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  33 

would  write  such  letters  in  such  cirumstances.  What  I 
mean  is  this: — Richardson's  nature  is  always  the  nature 
of  sentiment  and  reflection,  not  of  impulse  or  situation. 
He  furnishes  his  characters,  on  every  occasion,  with 
the  presence  of  mind  of  the  author.  He  makes  them  act,  5 
not  as  they  would  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  but 
as  they  might  upon  reflection,  and  upon  a  careful  review 
of  every  motive  and  circumstance  in  their  situation. 
They  regularly  sit  down  to  write  letters:  and  if  the  busi- 
ness of  life  consisted  in  letter  writing,  and  was  carried  10 
on  by  the  post  (like  a  Spanish  game  at  chess),  human 
nature  would  be  what  Richardson  represents  it.  All 
actual  objects  and  feelings  are  blunted  and  deadened 
by  being  presented  through  a  medium  which  may  be 
true  to  reason,  but  is  false  in  nature.  He  confounds  his  15 
own  point  of  view  with  that  of  the  immediate  actors  in 
the  scene;  and  hence  presents  you  with  a  conventional 
and  factitious  nature,  instead  of  that  which  is  real.  Dr. 
Johnson  seems  to  have  preferred  this  truth  of  reflection 
to  the  truth  of  nature,  when  he  said  that  there  was  more  20 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart  in  a  page  of  Richardson, 
than  in  all  Fielding.  Fielding,  however,  saw  more  of  the 
practical  results,  and  understood  the  principles  as  well; 
but  he  had  not  the  same  power  of  speculating  upon  their 
possible  results,  and  combining  them  in  certain  ideal  25 
forms  of  passion  and  imagination,  which  was  Richard- 
son's real  excellence. 

It  must  be  observed,  however,  that  it  is  this  mutual 
good  understanding  and  comparing  of  notes  between 
the  author  and  the  persons  he  describes,  his  infinite  3° 
Prose — 3 


34  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

circumspection,  his  exact  process  of  ratiocination  and 
calculation,  which  gives  such  an  appearance  of  cold- 
ness and  formality  to  most  of  his  characters, — which 
makes  prudes  of  his  women  and  coxcombs  of  his  men. 
5  Everything  is  too  conscious  in  his  works.  Everything 
is  distinctly  brought  home  to  the  mind  of  the  actors  in 
the  scene,  which  is  a  fault  undoubtedly :  but  then,  it  must 
be  confessed,  everything  is  brought  home  in  its  full 
force  to  the  mind  of  the  reader  also;  and  we  feel  the  same 

10  interest  in  the  story  as  if  it  were  our  own.  Can  anything 
be  more  beautiful  or  more  affecting  than  Pamela's  re- 
proaches to  her  "lumpish  heart,"  when  she  is  sent  away 
from  her  master's  at  her  own  request;  its  lightness  when 
she  is  sent  for  back;  the  joy  which  the  conviction  of  the 

15  sincerity  of  his  love  diffuses  in  her  heart,  like  the  coming 
on  of  spring;  the  artifice  of  the  stuff  gown;  the  meeting 
with  Lady  Davers  after  her  marriage;  and  the  trial  scene 
with  her  husband  ?  Who  ever  remained  insensible  to  the 
passion  of  Lady  Clementina,  except  Sir  Charles  Grand- 

20  ison  himself,  who  was  the  object  of  it?  Clarissa  is,  how- 
ever, his  masterpiece,  if  we  except  Lovelace.  If  she  is 
fine  in  herself,  she  is  still  finer  in  his  account  of  her. 
With  that  foil,  her  purity  is  dazzling  indeed:  and  she 
who  could  triumph  by  her  virtue,  and  the  force  of  her 

25  love,  over  the  regality  of  Lovelace's  mind,  his  wit,  his 
person,  his  accomplishments,  and  his  spirit,  conquers 
all  hearts.  I  should  suppose  that  never  sympathy  more 
deep  or  sincere  was  excited  than  by  the  heroine  of  Rich- 
ardson's romance,  except  by  the  calamities  of  real  life. 

30  The  links  in  this  wonderful  chain  of  interest  are  not  more 


THE   ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  35 

finely  wrought,  than  their  whole  weight  is  overwhelming 
and  irresistible.  Who  can  forget  the  exquisite  gradations 
of  her  long  dying  scene,  or  the  closing  of  the  coffin  lid, 
when  Miss  Howe  comes  to  take  her  last  leave  of  her 
friend;  or  the  heartbreaking  reflection  that  Clarissa  makes  5 
on  what  was  to  have  been  her  wedding  day  ?  Well  does 
a  certain  writer  exclaim — 

"  Books  are  a  real  world,  both  pure  and  good, 
Round  which,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  may  grow  1  "  10 

Richardson's  wit  was  unlike  that  of  any  other  writer 
— his  humor  was  so  too.  Both  were  the  effect  of  intense 
activity  of  mind — labored,  and  yet  completely  effectual. 
I  might  refer  to  Lovelace's  reception  and  description  of 
Hickman,  when  he  calls  out  Death  in  his  ear,  as  the  name  15 
of  the  person  with  whom  Clarissa  had  fallen  in  love;  and 
to  the  scene  at  the  glove  shop.  What  can  be  more  mag- 
nificent than  his  enumeration  of  his  companions — "  Bel- 
ton,  so  pert  and  so  pimply — Tourville,  so  fair  and  so 
foppish!"  etc.  In  casuistry  this  author  is  quite  at  home;  20 
and,  with  a  boldness  greater  even  than  his  puritanical 
severity,  has  exhausted  every  topic  on  virtue  and  vice. 
There  is  another  peculiarity  in  Richardson,  not  perhaps 
so  uncommon,  which  is,  his  systematically  preferring  his 
most  insipid  characters  to  his  finest,  though  both  were  25 
equally  his  own  invention,  and  he  must  be  supposed  to 
have  understood  something  of  their  qualities.  Thus 
he  preferred  the  little,  selfish,  affected,  insignificant 
Miss  Byron,  to  the  divine  Clementina;  and  again,  Sir 
Charles   Grandison  to   the   nobler   Lovelace.     I   have  3° 


36  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

nothing  to  say  in  favor  of  Lovelace's  morality;  but 
Sir  Charles  is  the  prince  of  coxcombs, — whose  eye  was 
never  once  taken  from  his  own  person  and  his  own 
virtues;  and  there  is  nothing  which  excites  so  little  sym- 
5  pathy  as  this  excessive  egotism. 

It  remains  to  speak  of  Sterne;  and  I  shall  do  it  in  few 
words.  There  is  more  of  mannerism  and  affectation  in 
him,  and  a  more  immediate  reference  to  preceding  au- 
thors; but  his  excellences,  where  he  is  excellent,  are  of 

10  the  first  order.  His  characters  are  intellectual  and  in- 
ventive, like  Richardson's,  but  totally  opposite  in  the 
execution.  The  one  are  made  out  by  continuity,  and 
patient  repetition  of  touches;  the  others,  by  glancing 
transitions  and  graceful  apposition.    His  style  is  equally 

15  different  from  Richardson's:  it  is  at  times  the  most  rapid, 
the  most  happy,  the  most  idiomatic  of  any  that  is  to  be 
found.  It  is  the  pure  essence  of  English  conversational 
style.  His  works  consist  only  of  morceaux — of  brilliant 
passages.    I  wonder  that  Goldsmith,  who  ought  to  have 

20  known  better,  should  call  him  £:a  dull  fellow."  His  wit 
is  poignant,  though  artificial;  and  his  characters  (though 
the  groundwork  of  some  of  them  had  been  laid  before) 
have  yet  invaluable  original  differences;  and  the  spirit 
of  the  execution,  the  master  strokes  constantly  thrown 

25  into  them,  are  not  to  be  surpassed.  It  is  sufficient  to 
name  them: — Yorick,  Dr.  Slop,  Mr.  Shandy,  My  Uncle 
Toby,  Trim,  Susanna,  and  the  Widow  Wadman.  In 
these  he  has  contrived  to  oppose,  with  equal  felicity  and 
originality,  two  characters,  one  of  pure  intellect,  and  the 

30  other  of  pure  good  nature,  in  My  Father  and  My  Uncle 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  37 

Toby.  There  appears  to  have  been  in  Sterne  a  vein  of 
dry,  sarcastic  humor,  and  of  extreme  tenderness  of  feel- 
ing; the  latter  sometimes  carried  to  affectation,  as  in  the 
tale  of  Maria,  and  the  apostrophe  to  the  recording  angel; 
but  at  other  times  pure,  and  without  blemish.  The  5 
story  of  Le  Fevre  is  perhaps  the  finest  in  the  English 
language.  My  Father's  restlessness,  both  of  body  and 
mind,  is  inimitable.  It  is  the  model  from  which  all  those 
despicable  performances  against  modern  philosophy 
ought  to  have  been  copied,  if  their  authors  had  known  10 
anything  of  the  subject  they  were  writing  about.  My 
Uncle  Toby  is  one  of  the  finest  compliments  ever  paid  to 
human  nature.  He  is  the  most  unoffending  of  God's 
creatures;  or,  as  the  French  express  it,  un  tel  petit  bon 
homme!  Of  his  bowling  green,  his  sieges,  and  his  amours,  15 
who  would  say  or  think  anything  amiss! 

It  is  remarkable  that  our  four  best  novel  writers  be- 
long nearly  to  the  same  age.  We  also  owe  to  the  same 
period  (the  reign  of  George  II)  the  inimitable  Hogarth, 
and  some  of  our  best  writers  of  the  middle  style  of  comedy.  20 
If  I  were  called  upon  to  account  for  this  coincidence,  I 
should  waive  the  consideration  of  more  general  causes, 
and  ascribe  it  at  once  to  the  establishment  of  the  Protes- 
tant ascendancy,  and  the  succession  of  the  House  of 
Hanover.  These  great  events  appear  to  have  given  a  25 
more  popular  turn  to  our  literature  and  genius,  as  well 
as  to  our  government.  It  was  found  high  time  that  the 
people  should  be  represented  in  books  as  well  as  in 
Parliament.  They  wished  to  see  some  account  of  them- 
selves in  what  they  read;  and  not  to  be  confined  always  30 

lv'4928 


38  NINETEENTH  CENTURA    PROSE 

to  the  vices,  the  miseries,  and  frivolities  of  the  great 
Our  domestic  tragedy,  and  our  earliest  periodical  works, 
appeared  a  little  before  the  same  period.  In  despotic 
countries,  human  nature  is  not  of  sufficient  importance 
5  to  be  studied  or  described.  The  canaille  are  objects 
rather  of  disgust  than  curiosity;  and  there  are  no  middle 
classes.  The  works  of  Racine  and  Moliere  are  either 
imitations  of  the  verbiage  of  the  court,  before  which 
they   were  represented,   or   fanciful   caricatures   of  the 

10  manners  of  the  lowest  of  the  people.  But  in  the  period 
of  our  history  in  question,  a  security  of  person  and 
property,  and  a  freedom  of  opinion  had  been  established, 
which  made  every  man  feel  of  some  consequence  to 
himself,  and  appear  an  object  of  some  curiosity  to  his 

15  neighbors:  our  manners  became  more  domesticated; 
there  was  a  general  spirit  of  sturdiness  and  independence, 
which  made  the  English  character  more  truly  English 
than  perhaps  at  any  other  period — that  is,  more  tenacious 
of  its  own  opinions  and  purposes.     The  whole  surface 

20  of  society  appeared  cut  out  into  square  enclosures  and 
sharp  angles,  which  extended  to  the  dresses  of  the  time, 
their  gravel  walks  and  clipped  hedges.  Each  individual 
had  a  certain  ground  plot  of  his  own  to  cultivate  his  par- 
ticular humors  in,  and  let  them  shoot  out  at  pleasure; 

25  and  a  most  plentiful  crop  they  have  produced  accord- 
ingly. The  reign  of  George  II  was,  in  a  word,  the  age 
of  hobby-horses:  but,  since  that  period,  things  have  taken 
a  different  turn. 

His  present  Majesty  (God  save  the  mark!)  during 

30  almost   the   whole   of   his   reign,    has   been   constantly 


THE   ENGLISH   NOVELISTS  39 

mounted  on  a  great  war-horse;  and  has  fairly  driven 
all  competitors  out  of  the  field.    Instead  of  minding  our 
own  affairs,  or  laughing  at  each  other,  the  eyes  of  all  his 
faithful  subjects  have  been  fixed  on  the  career  of  the 
sovereign,  and  all  hearts  anxious  for  the  safety  of  his    5 
person  and  government.    Our  pens  and  our  swords  have 
been  alike  drawn  in  their  defense;  and  the  returns  of 
killed  and  wounded,  the  manufacture  of  newspapers  and 
parliamentary  speeches,  have  exceeded  all  former  ex- 
ample.   If  we  have  had  a  little  of  the  blessings  of  peace,  ic 
we  have  had  enough  of  the  glories  and  calamities  of  war. 
Hii   Majesty   has  indeed  contrived  to  keep  alive  the 
greatest  public  interest  ever  known,  by  his  determined 
manner  of  riding  his  hobby  for  half  a  century  together, 
with  the  aristocracy,   the   democracy,   the  clergy,   the  15 
landed  and  moneyed  interest,  and  the  rabble,  in  full  cr 
after  him; — and  at  the  end  of  his  career,  most  happily 
and  unexpectedly  succeeded,  amidst  empires  lost  and 
won,  kingdoms  overturned  and  created,  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  an  incredible  number  of  lives,  in  restoring  the  di-  20 
1  me  right  o'-  kings,  and  thus  preventing  any  future  abuse 
of  the  example  which  seated  his  family  on  the  throne! 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  if  amidst  the  tumults  of 
events  crowded  into  this  period,  our  literature  has  par- 
taken of  the  disorder  of  the  time;  if  our  prose  has  run  25 
mad,  and  our  poetry  grown  childish.  Among  those  per- 
sons who  "have  kept  the  even  tenor  of  their  way,"  the 
author  of  Evelina,  Cecilia,  and  Camilla,  must  be  al- 
lowed to  hold  a  distinguished  place.1    Mrs.  Radclif: 

1  T?u  Fool  of  Quali'.-.,  Dz-.id  Simple,  and  Sydney  Biddulph,  3c 


40  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

"enchantments  drear,"  and  moldering  castles,  derived 
part  of  their  interest,  no  doubt,  from  the  supposed  totter- 
ing state  of  all  old  structures  at  the  time;  and  Mrs.  Inch- 
bald's  Nature  and  Art  would  scarcely  have  had  the  same 
5  popularity,  but  that  it  fell  in  (as  to  its  two  main  charac- 
ters) with  the  prevailing  prejudice  of  the  moment,  that 
judges  and  bishops  were  not  invariably  pure  abstractions 
of  justice  and  piety.  Miss  Edgeworth's  Tales,  again 
(with  the  exception  of  Castle  Rack-rent,  which  is  a  gen- 

10  uine,  unsophisticated,  national  portrait),  are  a  kind  of 
pedantic,  pragmatical  common  sense,  tinctured  with  the 
pertness  and  pretensions  of  the  paradoxes  to  which  they 
are  so  self-complacently  opposed.  Madame  D'Arblay  is, 
on  the  contrary,  quite  of  the  old  school,  a  mere  common 

15  observer  of  manners,  and  also  a  very  woman.  It  is  this 
last  circumstance  which  forms  the  peculiarity  of  her 
writings,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  master- 
pieces which  I  have  before  mentioned.  She  is  a  quick, 
lively,  and  accurate  observer  of  persons  and  things;  but 

20  she  always  looks  at  them  with  a  consciousness  of  her  sex, 
and  in  that  point  of  view  in  which  it  is  the  particular 
business  and  interest  of  women  to  observe  them.  There 
is  little  in  her  works  of  passion  or  character,  or  even  man- 
ners, in  the  most  extended  sense  of  the  word,  as  implying 

25  the  sum  total  of  our  habits  and  pursuits;  her  forte  is  in 
describing  the  absurdities  and  affectations  of  external 
behavior,  or  the  manners  of  people  in  company.     Her 

written  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  belong  to  the  ancient 
regime  of  novel  writing.     Of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  I  have  at- 
30  tempted  a  character  elsewhere. 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  4 1 

characters,  which  are  ingenious  caricatures,  are,  no 
doubt,  distinctly  marked,  and  well  kept  up;  but  they  are 
slightly  shaded,  and  exceedingly  uniform.  Her  heroes 
and  heroines,  almost  all  of  them,  depend  on  the  stock 
of  a  single  phrase  or  sentiment,  and  have  certain  mottoes  5 
or  devices  by  which  they  may  always  be  known.  They 
form  such  characters  as  people  might  be  supposed  to 
assume  for  a  night  at  a  masquerade.  She  presents  not 
the  whole-length  figure,  nor  even  the  face,  but  some 
prominent  feature.  In  one  of  her  novels,  for  example,  a  10 
lady  appears  regularly  every  ten  pages,  to  get  a  lesson 
in  music  for  nothing.  She  never  appears  for  any  other 
purpose;  this  is  all  you  know  of  her;  and  in  this  the  whole 
wit  and  humor  of  the  character  consists.  Meadows  is 
the  same,  who  has  always  the  cue  of  being  tired,  without  15 
any  other  idea.  It  has  been  said  of  Shakespeare,  that 
you  may  always  assign  his  speeches  to  the  proper  char- 
acters; and  you  may  infallibly  do  the  same  thing  with 
Madame  D'Arblay's,  for  they  always  say  the  same 
thing.  The  Braughtons  are  the  best.  Mr.  Smith  is  an  20 
exquisite  city  portrait.  Evelina  is  also  her  best  novel, 
because  it  is  the  shortest;  that  is,  it  has  all  the  liveliness 
in  the  sketches  of  character,  and  smartness  of  comic 
dialogue  and  repartee,  without  the  tediousness  of  the 
story,  and  endless  affectation  of  sentiment  which  dis-  25 
figures  the  others. 

Women,  in  general,  have  a  quicker  perception  of  any 
oddity  or  singularity  of  character  than  men,  and  are  more 
alive  to  every  absurdity  which  arises  from  a  violation 
of  the  rules  of  society,  or  a  deviation  from  established  30 


42  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

custom.  This  partly  arises  from  the  restraints  on  their 
own  behavior,  which  turn  their  attention  constantly 
on  the  subject,  and  partly  from  other  causes.  The  sur- 
face of  their  minds,  like  that  of  their  bodies,  seems  of  a 

5  finer  texture  than  ours;  more  soft,  and  susceptible  of 
immediate  impulses.  They  have  less  muscular  strength, 
less  power  of  continued  voluntary  attention,  of  reason, 
passion,  and  imagination;  but  they  are  more  easily  im- 
pressed with  whatever  appeals  to  their  senses  or  habitual 

10  prejudices.  The  intuitive  perception  of  their  minds  is 
less  disturbed  by  any  abstruse  reasonings  on  causes  or 
consequences.  They  learn  the  idiom  of  character  and 
manners,  as  they  acquire  that  of  language,  by  rote, 
without  troubling  themselves  about  the  principles.    Their 

15  observation  is  not  the  less  accurate  on  that  account,  as 
far  as  it  goes,  for  it  has  been  well  said  that  "there  is 
nothing  so  true  as  habit." 

There  is  little  other  power  in  Madame  D'Arblay's 
novels  than  that  of  immediate  observation;  her  char- 

20  acters,  whether  of  refinement  or  vulgarity,  are  equally 
superficial  and  confined.  The  whole  is  a  question  of 
form,  whether  that  form  is  adhered  to  or  infringed  upon. 
It  is  this  circumstance  which  takes  away  dignity  and  in- 
terest from  her  story  and  sentiments,  and  makes  the  one 

25  so  teasing  and  tedious,  and  the  other  so  insipid.  The 
difficulties  in  which  she  involves  her  heroines  are  too 
much  "Female  Difficulties";  they  are  difficulties  created 
out  of  nothing.  The  author  appears  to  have  no  other 
idea  of  refinement  than  it  is  the  reverse  of  vulgarity;  but 

30  the  reverse  of  vulgarity  is  fastidiousness  and  affectation. 


THE  ENGLISH   NOVELISTS  43 

There  is  a  true  and  a  false  delicacy.  Because  a  vulgar 
country  Miss  would  answer  "yes"  to  a  proposal  of 
marriage  in  the  first  page,  Madame  D'Arblay  makes  it 
a  proof  of  an  excess  of  refinement,  and  an  indispensable 
point  of  etiquette  in  her  young  ladies  to  postpone  the  5 
answer  to  the  end  of  five  volumes,  without  the  smallest 
reason  for  their  doing  so,  and  with  every  reason  to  the 
contrary.  The  reader  is  led  every  moment  to  expect  a 
denouement,  and  is  as  often  disappointed  on  some  trifling 
pretext.  The  whole  artifice  of  her  fable  consists  in  com-  10 
ing  to  no  conclusion.  Her  ladies  "stand  so  upon  the 
order  of  their  going,"  that  they  do  not  go  at  all.  They 
will  not  abate  an  ace  of  their  punctilio  in  any  circum- 
stances or  on  any  emergency.  They  would  consider  it 
as  quite  indecorous  to  run  downstairs  though  the  house  15 
were  in  flames,  or  to  move  an  inch  off  the  pavement 
though  a  scaffolding  was  falling.  She  has  formed  to 
herself  an  abstract  idea  of  perfection  in  common  be- 
havior, which  is  quite  as  romantic  and  impracticable  as 
any  other  idea  of  the  sort;  and  the  ccnsequence  has  nat-  20 
urally  been  that  she  makes  her  heroines  commit  the 
greatest  improprieties  and  absurdities  in  order  to  avoid 
the  smallest.  In  opposition  to  a  maxim  in  philosophy, 
they  constantly  act  from  the  weakest  motive,  or  rather 
from  pure  contradiction.  The  whole  tissue  of  the  fable  25 
is,  in  general,  more  wild  and  chimerical  than  anything 
in  Don  Quixote,  without  the  poetical  truth  or  elevation. 
Madame  D'Arblay  has  woven  a  web  of  difficulties  for 
her  heroines,  something  like  the  green  silken  threads  in 
which  the  shepherdesses  entangled  the  steed  of  Cer-  30 


44  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

vantes'  hero,  who  swore,  in  his  fine  enthusiastic  way, 
that  he  would  sooner  cut  his  passage  to  another  world 
than  disturb  the  least  of  those  beautiful  meshes.  To 
mention  the  most  painful  instance — the  Wanderer,  in 
5  her  last  novel,  raises  obstacles  lighter  than  "the  gossamer 
that  idles  in  the  wanton  summer  air,"  into  insurmount- 
able barriers;  and  trifles  with  those  that  arise  out  of  com- 
mon sense,  reason,  and  necessity.  Her  conduct  is  not 
to  be  accounted  for  directly  out  of  the  circumstances  in 

io  which  she  is  placed,  but  out  of  some  factitious  and  mis- 
placed refinement  on  them.  It  is  a  perpetual  game  at 
cross-purposes.  There  being  a  plain  and  strong  motive 
why  she  should  pursue  any  course  of  action,  is  a  suffi- 
cient reason  for  her  to  avoid  it,  and  the  perversity  of  her 

15  conduct  is  in  proportion  to  its  levity — as  the  lightness 
of  the  feather  baffles  the  force  of  the  impulse  that  is 
given  to  it,  and  the  slightest  breath  of  air  turns  it  back 
on  the  hand  from  which  it  is  thrown.  We  can  hardly 
consider  this  as  the  perfection  of  the  female  character! 

20  I  must  say  I  like  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  romances  better,  and 
think  of  them  oftener;  and  even  when  I  do  not,  part  of 
the  impression  with  which  I  survey  the  full-orbed  moon 
shining  in  the  blue  expanse  of  heaven,  or  hear  the  wind 
sighing  through  autumnal   leaves,   or  walk  under  the 

25  echoing  archways  of  a  Gothic  ruin,  is  owing  to  a  repeated 
perusal  of  the  Romance  of  the  Forest,  and  the  Mysteries 
of  Udolpho.  Her  descriptions  of  scenery,  indeed,  are 
vague  and  wordy  to  the  last  degree;  they  are  neither  like 
Sal va tor  nor  Claude,  nor  nature  nor  art;  and  she  dwells 

30  on  the  effects  of  moonlight  till  we  are  sometimes  weary 


THE   ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  45 

of  them;  her  characters  are  insipid,  the  shadows  of  a 
shade,  continued  on,  under  different  names,  through 
all  her  novels;  her  story  comes  to  nothing.  But  in  har- 
rowing up  the  soul  with  imaginary  horrors,  and  making 
the  flesh  creep,  and  the  nerves  thrill  with  fond  hopes  and  5 
fears,  she  is  unrivaled  among  her  fair  countrywomen. 
Her  great  power  lies  in  describing  the  indefinable,  and 
embodying  a  phantom.  She  makes  her  readers  twice 
children;  and  from  the  dim  and  shadowy  veil  which  she 
draws  over  the  objects*  of  her  fancy,  forces  us  to  believe  10 
all  that  is  strange,  and  next  to  impossible,  of  their  myste- 
rious agency;  whether  it  is  the  sound  of  the  lover's  lute 
borne  o'er  the  distant  waters  along  the  winding  shores 
of  Provence,  recalling  with  its  magic  breath,  some  long- 
lost  friendship  or  some  hopeless  love;  or  the  full  choir  of  15 
the  cloistered  monks,  chanting  their  midnight  orgies; 
or  the  lonely  voice  of  an  unhappy  sister  in  her  pensive 
cell,  like  angels'  whispered  music;  or  the  deep  sigh  that 
steals  from  a  dungeon  on  the  startled  ear;  or  the  dim 
apparition  of  ghastly  features;  or  the  face  of  an  assassin  20 
hid  beneath  a  monk's  cowl;  or  the  robber  gliding  through 
the  twilight  gloom  of  the  forest.  All  the  fascination  that 
links  the  world  of  passion  to  the  world  unknown  is  hers, 
and  she  plays  with  it  at  her  pleasure;  she  has  all  the 
poetry  of  romance,  all  that  is  obcure,  visionary,  and  ob-  25 
jectless  in  the  imagination.  It  seems  that  the  simple 
notes  of  Clara's  lute,  which  so  delighted  her  youthful 
heart,  still  echo  among  the  rocks  and  mountains  of  the  Va- 
lois;  the  mellow  tones  of  the  minstrel's  songs  still  mingle 
with  the  noise  of  the  dashing  oar  and  the  rippling  of  the  30 


46  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

silver  waves  of  the  Mediterranean;  the  voice  of  Agnes  is 
heard  from  the  haunted  tower,  and  Schedoni's  form  still 
stalks  through  the  frowning  ruins  of  Palinzi.  The  great- 
est treat,  however,  which  Mrs.  Radcliff e's  pen  has  provided 
5  for  the  lovers  of  the  marvelous  and  terrible  is  the  Pro- 
vencal tale  which  Ludovico  reads  in  the  Castle  of  Udolpho 
as  the  lights  are  beginning  to  burn  blue,  and  just  before 
the  faces  appear  from  behind  the  tapestry  that  carry 
him  off,  and  we  hear  no  more  of  him.    This  tale  is  of  a 

10  knight,  who  being  engaged  in  a,  dance  at  some  high 
festival  of  old  romance,  was  summoned  out  by  another 
knight  clad  in  complete  steel;  and  being  solemnly  ad- 
jured to  follow  him  into  the  mazes  of  the  neighboring 
wood,  his  conductor  brought  him  at  length  to  a  hollow 

15  glade  in  the  thickest  part,  where  he  pointed  to  the  mur- 
dered corse  of  another  knight,  and  lifting  up  his  beaver 
showed  him  by  the  gleam  of  moonlight  which  fell  on  it, 
that  it  had  the  face  of  his  specter  guide!  The  dramatic 
power  in  the  character  of  Schedoni,  the  Italian  monk, 

20  has  been  much  admired  and  praised;  but  the  effect  does 
not  depend  upon  the  character,  but  the  situations;  not 
upon  the  figure,  but  upon  the  background.  The  Castle 
of  Otranto  (which  is  supposed  to  have  led  the  way  to  this 
style  of  writing)  is,  to  my  notion,  dry,  meager,  and  with- 

25  out  effect.  It  is  done  upon  false  principles  of  taste.  The 
great  hand  and  arm  which  are  thrust  into  the  courtyard, 
and  remain  there  all  day  long,  are  the  pasteboard  ma- 
chinery of  a  pantomime;  they  shock  the  senses,  and  have 
no  purchase  upon  the  imagination.    They  are  a  matter- 

30  of-fact  impossibility;  a  fixture,  and  no  longer  a  phantom. 


THE  ENGLISH   NOVELISTS  47 

Quod  sic  mihi  ostendis,  incrcdidus  odi.  By  realizing  the 
chimeras  of  ignorance  and  fear,  begot  upon  shadows  and 
dim  likenesses,  we  take  away  the  very  grounds  of  credu- 
lity and  superstition;  and,  as  in  other  cases,  by  facing 
out  the  imposture  betray  the  secret  to  the  contempt  5 
and  laughter  of  the  spectators.  The  Recess,  and  the 
Old  English  Baron,  are  also  "dismal  treatises,"  but  with 
little  in  them  "at  which  our  fell  of  hair  is  life  to  rouse 
and  stir  as  life  were  in  it."  They  are  dull  and  prosing, 
without  the  spirit  of  fiction  or  the  air  of  tradition  to  10 
make  them  interesting.  After  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  Monk 
Lewis  was  the  greatest  master  of  the  art  of  freezing  the 
blood.  The  robber  scene  in  the  Monk  is  only  inferior 
to  that  in  Count  Fathom,  and  perfectly  new  in  the  cir- 
cumstances and  cast  of  the  characters.  Some  of  his  15 
descriptions  are  chargeable  with  unpardonable  gross- 
ness,  but  the  pieces  of  poetry  interspersed  in  this  far- 
famed  novel,  such  as  the  fight  of  Roncesvalles  and  the 
Exile,  in  particular,  have  a  romantic  and  delightful  har- 
mony, such  as  might  be  chanted  by  the  moonlight  pil-  20 
grim,  or  might  lull  the  dreaming  mariner  on  summer  seas. 
If  Mrs.  Radcliffe  touched  the  trembling  chords  of  the 
imagination,  making  wild  music  there,  Mrs.  Inchbald 
has  no  less  power  over  the  springs  of  the  heart.  She 
not  only  moves  the  affections  but  melts  us  into  "all  the  25 
luxury  of  woe."  Her  Nature  and  Art  is  one  of  the  most 
pathetic  and  interesting  stories  in  the  world.  It  is,  in- 
deed, too  much  so;  or  the  distress  is  too  naked,  and  the 
situations  hardly  to  be  borne  with  patience.  I  think 
nothing,  however,  can  exceed  in  delicacy  and  beauty  the  30 


48  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

account  of  the  love  letter  which  the  poor  girl,  who  is  the 
subject  of  the  story,  receives  from  her  lover,  and  which 
she  is  a  fortnight  in  spelling  out,  sooner  than  show  it  to 
any  one  else;  nor  the  dreadful  catastrophe  of  the  last  fatal 
5  scene,  in  which  the  same  poor  creature,  as  her  former 
seducer,  now  become  her  judge,  is  about  to  pronounce 
sentence  of  death  upon  her,  cries  out  in  agony — "  Oh, 
not  from  you!"  The  effect  of  this  novel  upon  the  feel- 
ings, is  not  only  of  the  most  distressing,  but  withering 

10  kind.  It  blights  the  sentiments,  and  haunts  the  memory. 
The  Simple  Story  is  not  much  better  in  this  respect :  the 
gloom,  however,  which  hangs  over  it  is  of  a  more  fixed 
and  tender  kind:  we  are  not  now  lifted  to  ecstasy,  only  to 
be  plunged  in  madness;  and  besides  the  sweetness  and 

15  dignity  of  some  of  the  characters,  there  are  redeeming 
traits,  retrospective  glances  on  the  course  of  human  life, 
which  brighten  the  backward  stream,  and  smile  in  hope 
or  patience  to  the  last.  Such  is  the  account  of  Sand- 
ford,  her  stern  and  inflexible  adviser,  sitting  by  the  bed- 

20  side  of  Miss  Milner,  and  comforting  her  in  her  dving 
moments;  thus  softening  the  worst  pang  of  human  na- 
ture, and  reconciling  us  to  the  best,  but  not  most  shin- 
ing virtues  in  human  character.  The  conclusion  of 
Nature  and  Art,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  scene  of  heartless 

25  desolation,  which  must  effectually  deter  any  one  from 
ever  reading  the  book  twice.  Mrs.  Inchbald  is  an  in- 
stance to  confute  the  assertion  of  Rousseau,  that  women 
fail  whenever  they  attempt  to  describe  the  passion  of  love. 
I  shall  conclude  this  Lecture,  by  saying  a  few  words 

30  of  the  author  of  Caleb  Williams,   and  the  author  of 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  49 

Waverley.  I  shall  speak  of  the  last  first.  In  knowledge, 
in  variety,  in  facility,  in  truth  of  painting,  in  costume  and 
scenery,  in  freshness  of  subject,  and  in  untired  interest, 
in  glancing  lights  and  the  graces  of  a  style  passing  at 
will  "from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe,"  at  once  5 
romantic  and  familiar,  having  the  utmost  force  of  imi- 
tation and  apparent  freedom  of  invention;  these  novels 
have  the  highest  claims  to  admiration.  What  lack  they 
yet  ?  The  author  has  all  power  given  him  from  without — 
he  has  not,  perhaps,  an  equal  power  from  within.  The  10 
intensity  of  the  feeling  is  not  equal  to  the  distinctness  of 
the  imagery.  He  sits  like  a  magician  in  his  cell,  and  con- 
jures up  all  shapes  and  sights  to  the  view;  and  with  a 
little  variation  we  might  apply  to  him  what  Spenser 
says  of  Fancy: —  15 

"  His  chamber  was  dispainted  all  within 

With  sundry  colors,  in  the  which  were  writ 

Infinite  shapes  of  things  dispersed  thin; 
•  Some  such  as  in  the  world  were  never  yet ; 

Some  daily  seene  and  knowen  by  their  names,  20 

Such  as  in  idle  fantasies  do  flit ; 

Infernal  hags,  centaurs,  fiends,  hippodames, 

Apes,  lions,  eagles,  owls,  fools,  lovers,  children,  dames." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  phantasmagoria,  the  author  him- 
self never  appears  to  take  part  with  his  characters,  to  25 
prompt  our  affection  to  the  good,  or  sharpen  our  an- 
tipathy to  the  bad.  It  is  the  perfection  of  art  to  conceal 
art;  and  this  is  here  done  so  completely,  that  while  it 
adds  to  our  pleasure  in  the  work,  it  seems  to  take  away 
from  the  merit  of  the  author.  As  he  does  not  thrust  30 
himself  forward  in  the  foreground,  he  loses  the  credit 
Prose — 4 


50  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

of  the  performance.  The  copies  are  so  true  to  nature, 
that  they  appear  like  tapestry  figures  taken  off  by  the 
pattern;  the  obvious  patchwork  of  tradition  and  history. 
His  characters  are  transplanted  at  once  from  their  na- 
5  tive  soil  to  the  page  which  wc  are  reading,  without  any 
traces  of  their  having  passed  through  the  hot  bed  of  the 
author's  genius  or  vanity.  He  leaves  them  as  he  found 
them;  but  this  is  doing  wonders.  The  Laird  and  the 
Bailie  of  Bradwardine,  the  idiot  rhymer,  David  Gel- 

10  latley,  Miss  Rose  Bradwardine,  and  Miss  Flora  Mac- 
Ivor,  her  brother  the  Highland  Jacobite  chieftain,  Vich 
Ian  Vohr,  the  Highland  rover,  Donald  Bean  Lean,  and 
the  worthy  page  Callum  Beg,  Bothwell  and  Balfour  of 
Burley,   Claverhouse  and  Macbriar,   Elshie  the  Black 

15  Dwarf,  and  the  Red  Reever  of  Westburn  Flat,  Hobbie 
and  Grace  Armstrong,  Ellangowan  and  Dominie  Samp- 
son, Dirk  Hatteraick  and  Meg  Merrilies,  are  at  present 
"familiar  in  our  mouths  as  household  names,"  and 
whether  they  are  actual  persons  or  creations  of  the  poet's 

20  pen,  is  an  impertinent  inquiry.  The  picturesque  and 
local  scenery  is  as  fresh  as  the  lichen  on  the  rock;  the 
characters  are  a  part  of  the  scenery.  If  they  are  put  in 
action,  it  is  a  moving  picture:  if  they  speak,  we  hear  their 
dialect  and  the  tones  of  their  voice.     If  the  humor  is 

25  made  out  by  dialect,  the  character  by  the  dress,  the  in- 
terest by  the  facts  and  documents  in  the  author's  posses- 
sion, we  have  no  right  to  complain,  if  it  is  made  out; 
but  sometimes  it  hardly  is,  and  then  we  have  a  right  to 
say  so.    For  instance,  in  the  Tales  of  my  Landlord,  Canny 

30  Elshie  is  not  in  himself  so  formidable  or  petrific  a  person 


THE   ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  5 1 

as  the  real  Black  Dwarf,  called  David  Ritchie,  nor  are 
his  acts  or  sayings  so  staggering  to  the  imagination. 
Again,  the  first  introduction  of  this  extraordinary  per- 
sonage, groping  about  among  the  hoary  twilight  ruins 
of  the  Witch  of  Micklestane  Moor  and  her  Grey  Geese,  5 
is  as  full  of  preternatural  power  and  bewildering  effect 
(according  to  the  tradition  of  the  country)  as  can  be; 
while  the  last  decisive  scene,  where  the  Dwarf,  in  his 
resumed  character  of  Sir  Edward  Mauley,  comes  from 
the  tomb  in  the  Chapel,  to  prevent  the  forced  marriage  10 
of  the  daughter  of  his  former  betrothed  mistress  with 
the  man  she  abhors,  is  altogether  powerless  and  tame. 
No  situation  could  be  imagined  more  finely  calculated 
to  call  forth  an  author's  powers  of  imagination  and 
passion;  but  nothing  is  done.  The  assembly  is  dis-  15 
persed  under  circumstances  of  the  strongest  natural 
feeling,  and  the  most  appalling  preternatural  appear- 
ances, just  as  if  the  effect  had  been  produced  by  a  peace 
officer  entering  for  the  same  purpose.  These  instances 
of  a  falling  off  are,  however,  rare;  and  if  this  author  20 
should  not  be  supposed  by  fastidious  critics  to  have 
original  genius  in  the  highest  degree,  he  has  other  quali- 
ties which  supply  its  place  so  well,  his  materials  are  so 
rich  and  varied,  and  he  uses  them  so  lavishly,  that  the 
reader  is  no  loser  by  the  exchange.  We  are  not  in  fear  25 
that  he  should  publish  another  novel;  we  are  under  no 
apprehension  of  his  exhausting  himself,  for  he  has  shown 
that  he  is  inexhaustible. 

Whoever  else  is,  it  is  pretty  clear  that  the  author  of 
Caleb  Williams  and  St.  Leon  is  not  the  author  of  Waverley.  30 


52  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

Nothing  can  be  more  distinct  or  excellent  in  their  several 
ways  than  these  two  writers.  If  the  one  owes  almost 
everything  to  external  observation  and  traditional  char- 
acter, the  other  owes  everything  to  internal  conception 
5  and  contemplation  of  the  possible  workings  of  the  human 
mind.  There  is  little  knowledge  of  the  world,  little 
variety,  neither  an  eye  for  the  picturesque,  nor  a  talent 
for  the  humorous  in  Caleb  Williams  for  instance,  but 
you  cannot  doubt  for  a  moment  of  the  originality  of  the 

io  work  and  the  force  of  the  conception.  The  impression 
made  upon  the  reader  is  the  exact  measure  of  the  strength 
of  the  author's  genius.  For  the  effect,  both  in  Caleb 
Williams  and  St.  Leon,  is  entirely  made  out,  neither  by 
facts,  nor  dates,  by  black  letter  or  magazine  learning, 

15  by  transcript  or  record,  but  by  intense  and  patient  study 
of  the  human  heart,  and  by  an  imagination  projecting 
itself  4nto  certain  situations,  and  capable  of  working  up 
its  imaginary  feelings  to  the  height  of  reality.  The  au- 
thor launches  into  the  ideal  world,  and  must  sustain 

20  himself  and  the  reader  there  by  the  mere  force  of  imagi- 
nation. The  sense  of  power  in  the  writer  thus  adds  to 
the  interest  of  the  subject. — The  character  of  Falkland 
is  a  sort  of  apotheosis  of  the  love  of  fame.  The  gay, 
the  gallant  Falkland  lives  only  in  the  good  opinion  of 

25  good  men;  for  this  he  adorns  his  soul  with  virtue  and 
tarnishes  it  with  crime;  he  lives  only  for  this,  and  dies 
as  he  loses  it.  He  is  a  lover  of  virtue  but  a  worshiper 
of  fame.  Stung  to  madness  by  a  brutal  insult,  he  avenges 
himself  by  a  crime  of  the  deepest  dye,  and  the  remorse 

30  of  his  conscience  and  the  stain  upon  his  honor  prey 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  53 

upon  his  peace  and  reason  ever  after.  It  was  into  the 
mouth  of  such  a  character  that  a  modern  poet  has  well 
put  the  words, 

" Action  is  momentary, 


The  motion  of  a  muscle,  this  way  or  that ;  5 

Suffering  is  long,  obscure,  and  infinite." 

In  the  conflict  of  his  feelings  he  is  worn  to  a  skeleton, 
wasted  to  a  shadow.  But  he  endures  this  living  death 
to  watch  over  his  undying  reputation,  and  to  preserve 
his  name  unsullied  and  free  from  suspicion.  But  he  is  10 
at  last  disappointed  in  this  his  darling  object,  by  the  very 
means  he  takes  to  secure  it,  and  by  harassing  and  goad- 
ing Caleb  Williams  (whose  insatiable,  incessant  curiosity 
had  wormed  itself  into  his  confidence)  to  a  state  of  des- 
peration, by  employing  every  sort  of  persecution,  and  15 
by  trying  to  hunt  him  from  society  like  an  infection, 
makes  him  turn  upon  him,  and  betray  the  inmost  secret 
of  his  soul.  The  last  moments  of  Falkland  are  indeed 
sublime:  the  spark  of  life  and  the  hope  of  imperishable 
renown  are  extinguished  in  him  together;  and  bending  20 
his  last  look  of  forgiveness  on  his  victim  and  destroyer, 
he  dies  a  martyr  to  fame,  but  a  confessor  at  the  shrine 
of  virtue!  The  reaction  and  play  of  these  two  characters 
into  each  other's  hands  (like  Othello  and  Iago)  is  inim- 
itably well  managed,  and  on  a  par  with  anything  in  the  25 
dramatic  art;  but  Falkland  is  the  hero  of  the  story, 
Caleb  Williams  is  only  the  instrument  of  it.  This  novel 
is  utterly  unlike  anything  else  that  ever  was  written,  and 
is  one  of  the  most  original  as  well  as  powerful  produc- 
tions in  the  English  language.    St.  Leon  is  not  equal  to  30 


54  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

it  in  the  plot  and  groundwork,  though  perhaps  superior 
in  the  execution.  In  the  one  Mr.  Godwin  has  hit  upon 
the  extreme  point  of  the  perfectly  natural  and  perfectly 
new;  in  the  other  he  enters  into  the  preternatural  world, 
5  and  comes  nearer  to  the  world  of  commonplace.  Still 
the  character  is  of  the  same  exalted  intellectual  kind. 
As  the  ruling  passion  of  the  one  was  the  love  of  fame, 
so  in  the  other  the  sole  business  of  life  is  thought.  Raised 
by  the  fatal  discovery  of  the  philosopher's  stone  above 

10  mortality,  he  is  cut  off  from  all  participation  with  its 
pleasures.  He  is  a  limb  torn  from  society.  In  possession 
of  eternal  youth  and  beauty,  he  can  feel  no  love;  sur- 
rounded, tantalized,  tormented  with  riches,  he  can  do 
no  good.    The  races  of  men  pass  before  him  as  in  a 

15  speculum;  but  he  is  attached  to  them  by  no  common  tie 
of  sympathy  or  suffering.  He  is  thrown  back  into  him- 
self and  his  own  thoughts.  He  lives  in  the  solitude  of 
his  own  breast, — without  wife  or  child,  or  friend,  or 
enemy  in  the  world.    His  is  the  solitude  of  the  soul, — 

20  not  of  woods,  or  seas,  or  mountains, — but  the  desert  of 
society,  the  waste  and  desolation  of  the  heart.  He  is 
himself  alone.  His  existence  is  purely  contemplative, 
and  is  therefore  intolerable  to  one  who  has  felt  the  rap- 
ture of  affection  or  the  anguish  of  woe.    The  contrast 

25  between  the  enthusiastic  eagerness  of  human  pursuits 
and  their  blank  disappointment,  was  never,  perhaps, 
more  finely  portrayed  than  in  this  novel.  Marguerite, 
the  wife  of  St.  Leon,  is  an  instance  of  pure  and  disin- 
terested affection  in  one  of  the  noblest  of  her  sex.    It  is 

30  not  improbable  that  the  author  found  the  model  of  this 


THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS  55 

character  in  nature. — Of  Mandeville,  I  shall  say  only  one 
word.  It  appears  to  me  to  be  a  falling  off  in  the  subject, 
not  in  the  ability.  The  style  and  declamation  are  even 
more  powerful  than  ever.  But  unless  an  author  sur- 
passes himself,  and  surprises  the  public  as  much  the  5 
fourth  or  fifth  time  as  he  did  the  first,  he  is  said  to  fall 
off,  because  there  is  not  the  same  stimulus  of  novelty. 
A  great  deal  is  here  made  out  of  nothing,  or  out  of  a 
very  disagreeable  subject.  I  cannot  agree  that  the  story 
is  out  of  nature.  The  feeling  is  very  common  indeed;  10 
though  carried  to  an  unusual  and  improbable  excess,  or 
to  one  with  which  from  the  individuality  and  minuteness 
of  the  circumstances,  we  cannot  readily  sympathize. 

It  is  rare  that  a  philosopher  is  a  writer  of  romances. 
The  union  of  the  two  characters  in  this  author  is  a  sort  15 
of  phenomenon  in  the  history  of  letters;  for  I  cannot  but 
consider  the  author  of  Political  Justice  as  a  philosophical 
reasoner  of  no  ordinary  stamp  or  pretensions.  That 
work,  whatever  its  defects  may  be,  is  distinguished  by 
the  most  acute  and  severe  logic,  and  by  the  utmost  bold-  20 
ness  of  thinking,  founded  on  a  love  and  conviction  of 
truth.  It  is  a  system  of  ethics,  and  one  that,  though  I 
think  it  erroneous  myself,  is  built  on  following  up  into 
its  fair  consequences,  a  very  common  and  acknowledged 
principle,  that  abstract  reason  and  general  utility  are  25 
the  only  test  and  standard  of  moral  rectitude.  If  this 
principle  is  true,  then  the  system  is  true:  but  I  think  that 
Mr.  Godwin's  book  has  done  more  than  anything  else 
to  overturn  the  sufficiency  of  this  principle  by  abstract- 
ing, in  a  strict  metaphysical  process,  the  influence  of  30 


56  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

reason  or  the  understanding  in  moral  questions  and  re- 
lations from  that  of  habit,  sense,  association,  local  and 
personal  attachment,  natural  affection,  etc.;  and  by 
thus  making  it  appear  how  necessary  the  latter  are  to  our 
5  limited,  imperfect,  and  mixed  being,  how  impossible 
the  former  as  an  exclusive  guide  of  action,  unless  man 
were,  or  were  capable  of  becoming,  a  purely  intellectual 
being.  Reason  is  no  doubt  one  faculty  of  the  human 
mind,  and  the  chief  gift  of  Providence  to  man;  but  it 

10  must  itself  be  subject  to  and  modified  by  other  instincts 
and  principles,  because  it  is  not  the  only  one.  This  work 
then,  even  supposing  it  to  be  false,  is  invaluable,  as 
demonstrating  an  important  truth  by  the  reduclio  ad 
absurdum;  or  it  is  an  experimentum  cruris  in  one  of  the 

15  grand  and  trying  questions  of  moral  philosophy. — In 
delineating  the  character  and  feelings  of  the  hermetic 
philosopher  St.  Leon,  perhaps  the  author  had  not  far 
to  go  from  those  of  a  speculative  philosophical  Recluse. 
He  who  deals  in  the  secrets  of  magic,  or  in  the  secrets 

20  of  the  human  mind,  is  too  often  looked  upon  with  jealous 
eyes  by  the  world,  which  is  no  great  conjurer;  he  who 
pours  out  his  intellectual  wealth  into  the  lap  of  the  pub- 
lic, is  hated  by  those  who  cannot  understand  how  he 
came  by  it;  he  who  thinks  beyond  his  age,  cannot  ex- 

25  pect  the  feelings  of  his  contemporaries  to  go  along  with 
him;  he  whose  mind  is  of  no  age  or  country,  is  seldom 
properly  recognized  during  his  lifetime,  and  must  wait, 
in  order  to  have  justice  done  him,  for  the  late  but  last- 
ing award  of  posterity: — "Where  his  treasure  is,  there 

30  his  heart  is  also." 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 

[Thomas  Carlyle  was  born  in  Ecclefechan,  Dumfriesshire, 
Scotland,  in  1795.  The  first  forty  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in 
his  native  land,  where  he  reached  maturity  through  great  trials 
and  spiritual  struggles.  After  finishing  his  education  at  the 
University  of  Edinburgh,  he  began  work  as  a  teacher  but  soon 
gave  it  up  to  make  his  way  in  literature.  For  some  years  he  was 
occupied  with  translations  from  the  German  which,  though  fail- 
ures financially,  brought  him  to  the  attention  of  the  magazine 
editors.  In  1827,  his  first  critical  essay,  Jean  Paul  Richter,  ap- 
peared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  There  followed  in  various 
periodicals  many  other  essays,  among  which  were  Burns  (1828), 
Goethe  (1828),  and  Voltaire  (1829).  In  1833  Sartor  Resartus  be- 
gan to  appear  in  Eraser's  Magazine.  The  year  after,  Carlyle 
moved  to  London,  where  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life  in 
severe  literary  labor.  The  French  Revolution  (1837)  fixed  his 
reputation  as  a  writer.  His  other  works  are:  Chartism  (1839) ; 
Heroes  and  Hero-worship  ( 1841 )  ;  Past  and  Present  (1843)  ;  Crom- 
well (1845) ;  Latter- Day  Pamphlets  (1850) ;  Life  of  John  Sterling 
(1851)  ;  History  of  Frederick  the  Great  (1858-1865).  Carlyle 
died  in  1 88 1 .] 

The  intellectual  and  moral  affinity  between  Johnson 
and  Carlyle  was  manifold  and  intimate.  Like  Johnson, 
Carlyle  was  a  stoical  moralist  and  a  vehement  hater  of 
cant  and  sham.  Johnson  delighted  in  the  study  of 
human  nature,  and  Carlyle  found  his  greatest  pleasure 
and  profit  in  biography.  Both  had  an  intense  curiosity 
in  men  of  achievement  and  both  believed  that  a  great 
man  could  turn  his  talents  to  any  account.  One  was  as 
stubborn  a  champion  of  veracity,  as  brave  in  defense  of 
truth,  as  the  other;  and  the  fundamental  political  opin- 

57 


58  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

ions  of  Johnson  were  those  of  Carlyle.  In  temperament 
also,  in  lifelong  melancholy,  in  crabbed  indifference  to 
the  fine  arts,  and  in  profound  reverence  of  soul,  both 
men  were  singularly  alike.  Carlyle  discovers  in  John- 
son "a  deep  lyric  tone;"  others  have  felt  that  this  is  pre- 
cisely the  quality  most  characteristic  of  Carlyle. 

Because  of  this  close  spiritual  kinship  Carlyle,  after 
Boswell,  is  the  most  inspired  interpreter  of  Johnson. 
His  essay  merits  the  praise  of  Fitzgerald,  who  thought 
that  Johnson  was  judged  "for  good  and  all."  It  is  the 
more  worthy  of  praise  since  it  so  vigorously  and  so  justly 
assails  the  infamous  paradox  launched  by  Macaulay  that 
Boswell  was  the  best  biographer  in  the  world  because  he 
was  a  great  fool.  Carlyle  states  Boswell's  case  with 
blunt  directness.  Here  is  a  man  who  "  has  provided  us 
a  greater  pleasure  than  any  other  individual,"  yet  "no 
written  or  spoken  eulogy  of  James  Boswell  anywhere 
exists.''  If  Carlyle's  eulogy  overleaps  itself  and  falls  on 
the  other  side,  it  at  least  deserves  the  praise  of  being  the 
first  serious  recognition  of  the  unique  greatness  of  John- 
son's biographer;  and  as  such  it  is  a  notable  achievement 
in  literary  criticism. 

Carlyle's  plan  of  treatment  in  the  present  essay  is 
typical  of  his  general  critical  method.  The  critic's  prob- 
lem, he  says,  is  to  put  himself  in  "  Johnson's  place;  and 
so,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  term,  understand  him,  his  say- 
ings and  doings."  The  subject  must  be  approached, 
not  from  without,  as  Macaulay  had  approached  it,  but 
from  within.  The  lives  of  both  Johnson  and  Boswell, 
therefore,  are  subjected  to  a  careful  analysis  and  the  re- 
sults of  this  analysis  are  used  to  explain  their  work. 
All  of  the  elements  in  Boswell's  character,  for  example, 
are  reducible  to  hero-worship.  Gifted  with  reverence, 
he  wrote  the  greatest  book  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Endowed  with  the  virtues  of  "devout  Discipleship,"  he 
evoked  the  dead  past  and  made  it  live  anew  and  forever. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  59 

Examined  in  the  same  way  Johnson  is  seen  to  be  a  hero 
and  hence  a  priest.  But  "how,  in  what  spirit;  under 
what  shape?"  asks  Carlyle.  The  form  of  the  question 
suggests  the  subjectivity  of  his  method.  That  is  to  say, 
he  is  not  first  of  all  interested  in  the  visible  Samuel  John- 
son with  all  his  grotesque  eccentricities,  but  in  the  in- 
visible soul  of  the  man  with  its  power  to  fight  and  win 
spiritual  battles.  As  Carlyle  understood  him,  Johnson 
was  not  merely  a  coarse,  hulking,  bodily  shape,  but  a 
brave,  militant  spirit;  he  was  an  Ariel  even  if  incased  in 
the  rude  form  of  a  Caliban.  When  he  reached  man- 
hood he  found  himself  in  a  chaotic  world  in  which  lit- 
erature, religion,  politics,  and  all  human  affairs  were 
drifting  hither  and  thither.  Into  this  turbulent  vortex 
Johnson  was  compelled  to  plunge,  to  resist  as  best  he 
could  the  advancing  tide  of  atheism  and  Whiggism,  up- 
holding the  old,  the  orthodox,  and  the  established.  John- 
son had  courage  to  do  this  because  he  had  heard  the 
"transcendental  voice  of  duty,  the  essence  of  all  Re- 
ligion." The  introductory  question,  therefore,  is  an- 
swered by  calling  Johnson  a  priest:  "the  true  spiritual 
Edifier  and  Soul's  Father  of  all  England  was — Samuel 
Johnson." 

This  interpretation  of  the  life  suggests  the  true  ex- 
planation of  the  work.  In  that  time  of  transition  John- 
son was  a  preacher  whose  text  was  Toryism.  He  taught 
the  lesson  of  standing  still;  he  resisted  innovation.  Here 
again  the  critic  brings  into  use  his  subjective  inquiry; 
by  "what  movement,"  he  asks,  was  it  that  "Johnson 
realized  such  a  life-work  for  himself  and  others  ?  "  John- 
son did  his  work,  fulfilled  his  mission,  Carlyle  holds, 
because  of  certain  moral  and  intellectual  qualities,— 
valor,  truthfulness,  honesty,  and  affectionateness  (both 
as  courtesy  and  as  prejudice).  These  virtues  made  him 
a  true  product  of  England,  the  "  John  Bull  of  Spiritual 
Europe." 


6o  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

It  is  evident  from  this  short  summary  that  what  in- 
terested Carlyle,  first  and  last,  were  the  men,  Boswell 
and  Johnson, — their  moral  characters,  their  doings,  their 
manner  of  deportment.  Little  attention  is  paid  to  their 
literary  characters.  In  the  case  of  Johnson  this  omission 
is  not  serious,  for  the  great  Cham  owes  his  immortality 
not  to  his  Idlers,  his  Ramblers,  or  even  his  Lives,  but  to 
his  immensely  fascinating  personality  which  the  inspired 
work  of  Boswell  has  preserved  for  all  time.  But  the 
brilliant  craftsmanship  of  Boswell  is  faintly  recognized 
by  Carlyle.  The  first  biographer  in  English  letters  was 
neither  the  unqualified  fool  of  Macaulay's  portrait,  nor 
the  martyr-hero  of  Carlyle's;  he  was  something  of  a  fool, 
something  of  a  hero- worshiper,  but  he  was  also  a 
literary  artist  who  knew  perfectly  well  the  richness  of  his 
material  and  who  shaped  it  in  accordance  with  the  aims 
of  a  supremely  self-conscious  purpose. 

Carlyle's  style,  except  in  its  later  manifestations,  is 
well  exemplified  in  the  present  essay.  It  shows  in  the 
first  place  what  was  for  Carlyle  a  matter  of  primary 
importance, — unity  of  design.  Section  and  paragraph 
have  their  proper  places  in  an  order  so  articulate,  so 
purposeful,  as  to  illustrate  what  Pater  calls  "mind"  in 
style.  Carlyle  took  infinite  trouble  to  give  all  his  work 
a  vital  wholeness,  to  mold  and  shape  it  according  to 
some  central  plan.  He  wrote  only  after  all  his  ideas  were 
thoroughly  fused  in  his  own  mind  so  that  their  relation 
became  not  adventitious  but  inevitable.  All  his  writings, 
from  the  earliest  critical  essay  to  the  massive  history  of 
Frederick,  in  this  respect  are  undeniably  artistic.  The 
present  essay  is  typical  in  other  respects  also.  The 
"rich,  idiomatic  diction,  picturesque  allusions,  fiery 
poetic  emphasis,  or  quaint  tricksy  terms,"  mentioned  in 
the  Sartor  as  characteristic  of  that  work,  appear  on  every 
page  and  lift  the  piece  above  the  level  of  pedestrian  prose. 
It  is  a  style  in  truth  possessing  the  passion  and  the  con- 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  6l 

creteness  of  serious  poetry,  two  characteristics  which 
proclaim  the  essay  rather  a  lyrical  panegyric  sung  by  a 
latter-day  prophet  than  a  sober  interpretation  delivered 
by  an  even-handed  critic. 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF   JOHNSON 

jEsop's  Fly,  sitting  on  the  axle  of  the  chariot,  has 
been  much  laughed  at  for  exclaiming:  What  a  dust  I 
do  raise!  Yet  which  of  us,  in  his  way,  has  not  some- 
times been  guilty  of  the  like?  Nay,  so  foolish  are  men, 
they  often,  standing  at  ease  and  as  spectators  on  the  5 
highway,  will  volunteer  to  exclaim  of  the  Fly  (not  being 
tempted  to  it,  as  he  was)  exactly  to  the  same  purport: 
What  a  dust  thou  dost  raise!  Smallest  of  mortals,  when 
mounted  aloft  by  circumstances,  come  to  seem  great; 
smallest  of  phenomena  connected  with  them  are  treated  10 
as  important,  and  must  be  sedulously  scanned,  and 
commented  upon  with  loud  emphasis. 

That  Mr.  Croker  should  undertake  to  edit  BosweWs 
Life  of  Johnson  was  a  praiseworthy  but  no  miraculous 
procedure:  neither  could  the  accomplishment  of  such  15 
undertaking  be,  in  an  epoch  like  ours,  anywise  regarded 
as  an  event  in  Universal  History;  the  right  or  the  wrong 
accomplishment  thereof  was,  in  very  truth,  one  of  the 
most  insignificant  of  things.  However,  it  sat  in  a  great 
environment,  on  the  axle  of  a  high,  fast-rolling,  parlia-  -0 
mentary  chariot;  and  all  the  world  has  exclaimed  over 
it,  and  the  author  of  it:  What  a  dust  thou  dost  raise! 
List  to  the  Reviews,  and  "  Organs  of  Public  Opinion," 


62  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

from  the  National  Omnibus  upwards:  criticisms,  vi- 
tuperative and  laudatory,  stream  from  their  thousand 
throats  of  brass  and  of  leather;  here  chanting  Io-pceans; 
there  grating  harsh  thunder  or  vehement  shrew-mouse 
5  squeaklets;  till  the  general  ear  is  filled,  and  nigh  deafened. 
Boswell's  Book  had  a  noiseless  birth,  compared  with 
this  Edition  of  Boswell's  Book.  On  the  other  hand, 
consider  with  what  degree  of  tumult  Paradise  Lost  and 
the  Iliad  were  ushered  in! 

io  To  swell  such  clamor,  or  prolong  it  beyond  the  time 
seems  nowise  our  vocation  here.  At  most,  perhaps, 
we  are  bound  to  inform  simple  readers,  with  all  possible 
brevity,  what  manner  of  performance  and  Edition  this 
is;  especially,  whether,  in  our  poor  judgment,  it  is  worth 

15  laying  out  three  pounds  sterling  upon,  yea  or  not.  The 
whole  business  belongs  distinctly  to  the  lower  ranks  of 
the  trivial  class. 

Let  us  admit,  then,  with  great  readiness,  that  as  John- 
son once  said,  and  the  Editor  repeats,  "all  works  which 

20  describe  manners  require  notes  in  sixty  or  seventy  years, 
or  less;"  that,  accordingly,  a  new  Edition  of  Boswell  was 
desirable;  and  that  Mr.  Croker  has  given  one.  For  this 
task  he  had  various  qualifications:  his  own  voluntary 
resolution  to  do  it;  his  high  place  in  society,  unlocking 

25  all  manner  of  archives  to  him;  not  less,  perhaps,  a  cer- 
tain anecdotico-biographic  turn  of  mind,  natural  or 
acquired;  we  mean  a  love  for  the  minuter  events  of  His- 
tory, and  talent  for  investigating  these.  Let  us  admit, 
too,  that  he  has  been  very  diligent;  seems  to  have  made 

30  inquiries  perseveringly,  far  and  near;  as  well  as  drawn 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  63 

freely  from  his  own  ample  stores;  and  so  tells  us,  to  ap- 
pearance quite  accurately,  much  that  he  has  not  found 
lying  on  the  highways,  but  has  had  to  seek  and  dig  for. 
Numerous  persons,  chiefly  of  quality,  rise  to  view  in 
these  Notes;  when  and  also  where  they  came  into  this  5 
world,  received  office  or  promotion,  died  and  were  buried 
(only  what  they  did,  except  digest,  remaining  often  too 
mysterious), — is  faithfully  enough  set  down.  Whereby 
all  that  their  various  and  doubtless  widely  scattered 
Tombstones  could  have  taught  us,  is  here  presented,  at  ic 
once  in  a  bound  Book.  Thus  is  an  indubitable  conquest, 
though  a  small  one,  gained  over  our  great  enemy,  the  all- 
destroyer  Time,  and  as  such  shall  have  welcome. 

Nay,  let  us  say  that  the  spirit  of  Diligence,  exhibited 
in  this  department,  seems  to  attend  the  Editor  honestly  15 
throughout;  he  keeps  everywhere  a  watchful  outlook 
on  his  Text;  reconciling  the  distant  with  the  present, 
or  at  least  indicating  and  regretting  their  irreconcilability; 
elucidating,  smoothing  down;  in  all  ways  exercising,  ac- 
cording to  ability,  a  strict  editorial  superintendence.  20 
Any  little  Latin  or  even  Greek  phrase  is  rendered  into 
English,  in  general  with  perfect  accuracy;  citations  are 
verified,  or  else  corrected.  On  all  hands,  moreover, 
there  is  a  certain  spirit  of  Decency  maintained  and  in- 
sisted on:  if  not  good  morals,  yet  good  manners  are  25 
rigidly  inculcated;  if  not  Religion,  and  a  devout  Chris- 
tian heart,  yet  Orthodoxy,  and  a  cleanly  Shovel-hatted 
look, — which,  as  compared  with  flat  Nothing,  is  some- 
thing very  considerable.  Grant,  too,  as  no  contemptible 
triumph  of  this  latter  spirit,  that  though  the  Editor  is  3c 


64  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

known  as  a  decided  Politician  and  Party-man,  he  has 
carefully  subdued  all  temptations  to  transgress  in  that 
way:  except  by  quite  involuntary  indications,  and  rather 
as  it  were  the  pervading  temper  of  the  whole,  you  could 
5  not  discover  on  which  side  of  the  Political  Warfare  he 
is  enlisted  and  fights.  This,  as  we  said,  is  a  great  triumph 
of  the  Decency-principle:  for  this,  and  for  these  other 
graces  and  performances,  let  the  Editor  have  all  praise. 
Herewith,    however,    must    the    praise    unfortunately 

10  terminate.  Diligence,  Fidelity,  Decency,  are  good  and 
indispensable:  yet,  without  Faculty,  without  Light,  they 
will  not  do  the  work.  Along  with  that  Tombstone- 
information,  perhaps  even  without  much  of  it,  we  could 
have  liked  to  gain  some  answer,  in  one  way  or  other, 

15  to  this  wide  question:  What  and  how  was  English  Life 
in  Johnson's  time;  wherein  has  ours  grown  to  differ 
therefrom?  In  other  words:  What  things  have  we  to 
forget,  what  to  fancy  and  remember,  before  we,  from 
such  distance,  can  put   ourselves  in   Johnson's  place; 

20  and  so,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  term,  understand  him,  his 
sayings  and  his  doings?  This  was  indeed  specially  the 
problem  which  a  Commentator  and  Editor  had  to  solve: 
a  complete  solution  of  it  should  have  lain  in  him,  his 
whole  mind  should  have  been  filled  and  prepared  with 

25  perfect  insight  into  it;  then,  whether  in  the  way  of  ex- 
press Dissertation,  of  incidental  Exposition  and  Indica- 
tion, opportunities  enough  would  have  occurred  of  bring' 
ing  out  the  same :  what  was  dark  in  the  figure  of  the  Past 
had  thereby  been  enlightened;  Boswell  had,  not  in  show 

30  and  word  only,  but  in  very  fact  been  made  new  again, 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  65 

readable  to  us  who  are  divided  from  him,  even  as  he 
was  to  those  close  at  hand.  Of  all  which  very  little  has 
been  attempted  here;  accomplished,  we  should  say,  next 
to  nothing,  or  altogether  nothing. 

Excuse,  no  doubt,  is  in  readiness  for  such  omission;    5 
and,  indeed,  for  innumerable  other  failings; — as  where, 
for  example,  the  Editor  will  punctually  explain  what  is 
already  sun-clear;  and  then  anon,  not  without  frank- 
ness, declare  frequently  enough  that  "the  Editor  does 
not  understand  "  "  the  Editor  cannot  guess," — while,  for  10 
most  part,  the  Reader  cannot  help  both  guessing  and 
seeing.     Thus,  if  Johnson  say,  in  one  sentence,  that 
"English  names  should  not  be  used  in  Latin  verses;" 
and  then,   in   the   next   sentence,   speak   blamingly   of 
"Carteret  being  used  as  a  dactyl,"  will  the  generality  !5 
of  mortals  detect  any  puzzle  there  ?    Or  again,  where  poor 
Boswell  writes,  "I  always  remember  a  remark  made  to 
me  by  a  Turkish  lady,  educated  in  France:  'Ma  foi, 
monsieur,  notre  bonheur  depend  de  la  jacon  que  notre  sang 
tirade;'  " — though  the  Turkish  lady  here  speaks  Eng-  ?o 
lish-French,  where  is  the  call  for  a  Note  like  this:  "Mr. 
Boswell  no  doubt  fancied  these  words  had  some  meaning, 
or  he  would  hardly  have  quoted  them;  but  what  that 
meaning  is  the  Editor  cannot  guess"?     The  Editor  is 
clearly  no  witch  at  a  riddle. — For  these  and  all  kindred  25 
deficiencies  the  excuse,  as  we  said,  is  at  hand;  but  the 
fact  of  their  existence  is  not  the  less  certain  and  regret- 
table. 

Indeed,  it,  from  a  very  early  stage  of  the  business,  be- 
comes afflictively  apparent,  how  much  the  Editor,  so  3° 
Prose — 5 


66  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

well  furnished  with  all  external  appliances  and  means, 
is  from  within  unfurnished  with  means  for  forming  to 
himself  any  just  notion  of  Johnson  or  of  Johnson's  Life; 
and  therefore  of  speaking  on  that  subject  with  much  hope 
5  of  edifying.  Too  lightly  is  it  from  the  first  taken  for 
granted  that  Hunger,  the  great  basis  of  our  life,  is  also 
its  apex  and  ultimate  perfection;  that  as  "Neediness  and 
Greediness  and  Vainglory"  are  the  chief  qualities  of 
most  men,  so  no  man,  not  even  a  Johnson,  acts  or  can 

10  think  of  acting  on  any  other  principle.  Whatsoever, 
therefore,  cannot  be  referred  to  the  two  former  categories 
(Need  and  Greed),  is  without  scruple  ranged  under  the 
latter.  It  is  here  properly  that  our  Editor  becomes  bur- 
densome, and,  to  the   weaker   sort,   even  a  nuisance. 

15  "What  good  is  it,"  will  such  cry,  "when  we  had  still 
some  faint  shadow  of  belief  that  man  was  better  than 
a  selfish  Digesting-machine,  what  good  is  it  to  poke  in, 
at  every  turn,  and  explain  how  this  and  that,  which  we 
thought  noble  in  old  Samuel,  was  vulgar,  base;  that  for 

20  him,  too,  there  was  no  reality  but  in  the  Stomach;  and 
except  Pudding,  and  the  finer  species  of  pudding  which  is 
named  Praise,  life  had  no  pabulum  ?  Why,  for  instance, 
when  we  know  that  Johnson  loved  his  good  Wife,  and 
says  expressly  that  their  marriage  was  'a  love-match  on 

25  both  sides,' — should  two  closed  lips  open  to  tell  us  only 
this:  'Is  it  not  possible  that  the  obvious  advantage  of 
having  a  woman  of  experience  to  superintend  an  estab- 
lishment of  this  kind  (the  Edial  school)  may  have  con- 
tributed to  a  match  so  disproportionate  in  point  of  age  ? — 

30  Ed.'?    Or  again  when,  in  the  Text,  the  honest  cynic 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  67 

speaks  freely  of  his  former  poverty,  and  it  is  known  that 
he  once  lived  on  fourpence  half-penny  a  day, — need  a 
Commentator  advance,  and  comment  thus:  'When  we 
find  Dr.  Johnson  tell  unpleasant  truths  to,  or  of,  other 
men,  let  us  recollect  that  he  does  not  appear  to  have  5 
spared  himself,  on  occasions  in  which  he  might  be  for- 
given for  doing  so?'  Why,  in  short,"  continues  the  ex- 
asperated Reader,  "should  Notes  of  this  species  stand 
affronting  me,  when  there  might  have  been  no  Note  at 
all?" — Gentle  Reader,  we  answer,  Be  not  wroth.  What  10 
other  could  an  honest  Commentator  do,  than  give  thee 
the  best  he  had  ?  Such  was  the  picture  and  theorem  he 
had  fashioned  for  himself  of  the  world  and  of  man's 
doings  therein:  take  it,  and  draw  wise  inferences  from 
it.  If  there  did  exist  a  Leader  of  Public  Opinion,  and  15 
Champion  of  Orthodoxy  in  the  Church  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  who  reckoned  that  man's  glory  consisted  in 
not  being  poor;  and  that  a  Sage,  and  Prophet  of  his  time, 
must  needs  blush  because  the  world  had  paid  him  at 
that  easy  rate  of  fourpence  half- penny  per  diem, — was  not  20 
the  fact  of  such  existence  worth  knowing,  worth  con- 
sidering? 

Of  a  much  milder  hue,  yet  to  us  practically  of  an  all- 
defacing,  and  for  the  present  enterprise  quite  ruinous 
character, — is  another  grand  fundamental  failing;  the  25 
last  we  shall  feel  ourselves  obliged  to  take  the  pain  of 
specifying  here.  It  is,  that  our  Editor  has  fatally,  and 
almost  surprisingly,  mistaken  the  limits  of  an  Editor's 
function;  and  so,  instead  of  working  on  the  margin  with 
his  Pen,  to  elucidate  as  best  might  be,  strikes  boldly  30 


68  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

into  the  body  of  the  page  with  his  Scissors,  and  there 
clips  at  discretion!  Four  Books  Mr.  C.  had  by  him, 
wherefrom  to  gather  light  for  the  fifth,  which  was  Bos- 
well's.  What  does  he  do  but  now,  in  the  placidest 
5  manner, — slit  the  whole  five  into  slips,  and  sew  these 
together  into  a  sextum  quid,  exactly  at  his  own  conven- 
ience, giving  Boswell  the  credit  of  the  whole!  By  what 
art-magic,  our  readers  ask,  has  he  united  them?  By 
the  simplest  of  all:  by  Brackets.     Never  before  was  the 

io  full  virtue  of  the  Bracket  made  manifest.  You  begin  a 
sentence  under  Boswell's  guidance,  thinking  to  be  car- 
ried happily  through  it  by  the  same:  but  no;  in  the  mid- 
dle, perhaps  after  your  semicolon,  and  some  consequent 
"for," — starts  up  one  of  these  Bracket-ligatures,  and 

15  stitches  you  in  from  half  a  page  to  twenty  or  thirty  pages 
of  a  Hawkins,  Tyers,  Murphy,  Piozzi;  so  that  often  one 
must  make  the  old  sad  reflection,  "where  we  are,  we 
know;  whither  we  are  going,  no  man  knoweth!"  It  is 
truly  said  also,  "There  is  much  between  the  cup  and  the 

20  lip;"  but  here  the  case  is  still  sadder:  for  not  till  after 
consideration  can  you  ascertain,  now  when  the  cup  is 
at  the  lip,  what  liquor  is  it  you  are  imbibing;  whether 
Boswell's  French  wine  which  you  began  with,  or  some 
of  Piozzi 's  ginger-beer,  or  Hawkins's  entire,  or  perhaps 

25  some  other  great  Brewer's  penny-swipes  or  even  alegar, 
which  has  been  surreptitiously  substituted  instead 
thereof.  A  situation  almost  original;  not  to  be  tried  a 
second  time!  But,  in  fine,  what  ideas  Mr.  Croker  en- 
tertains of  a  literary  whole  and  the  thing  called  Book, 

30  and  how  the  very  Printer's  Devils  did  not  rise  in  mutiny 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  69 

against  such  a  conglomeration  as  this,  and  refuse  to 
print  it, — may  remain  a  problem. 

But  now  happily  our  say  is  said.     All  faults,  the  Moral- 
ists tell  us,  are  properly  shortcomings;  crimes  themselves 
are  nothing  other  than  a  not  doing  enough;  a  fighting,    5 
but  with   defective   vigor.     How  much  more    a    mere 
insufficiency,  and  this  after  good  efforts,  in  handicraft 
practice!    Mr.  Croker  says:  "The  worst  that  can  happen 
is  that  all  the  present  Editor  has  contributed  may,  if 
the  reader  so  pleases,  be  rejected  as  surplusage."    It  is  10 
our  pleasant  duty  to  take  with  hearty  welcome  what  he 
has  given;  and  render  thanks  even  for  what  he  meant 
to  give.    Next,  and  finally,  it  is  our  painful  duty  to  de- 
clare, aloud  if  that  be  necessary,  that  his  gift,  as  weighed 
against  the  hard  money  which  the  Booksellers  demand  15 
for  giving  it  you,  is  (in  our  judgment)  very  greatly  the 
lighter.     No  portion,  accordingly,  of  our  small  floating 
capital  has  been  embarked  in  the  business,  or  shall  ever 
be;  indeed,  were  we  in  the  market  for  such  a  thing,  there 
is  simply  no  Edition  of  Boswell  to  which  this  last  would  20 
seem  preferable.     And  now  enough,  and  more  than 
enough! 

.We  have  next  a  word  to  say  of  James  Boswell.  Bos- 
well has  already  been  much  commented  upon;  but  rather 
in  the  way  of  censure  and  vituperation,  than  of  true  25 
recognition.  He  was  a  man  that  brought  himself  much 
before  the  world;  confessed  that  he  eagerly  coveted  fame, 
or  if  that  were  not  possible,  notoriety;  of  which  latter 
as  he  gained  far  more  than  seemed  his  due,  the  public 
were  incited,  not  only  by  their  natural  love  of  scandal,  30 


70  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

but  by  a  special  ground  of  envy,  to  say  whatever  ill  of 
him  could  be  said.  Out  of  the  fifteen  millions  that  then 
lived,  and  had  bed  and  board,  in  the  British  Islands, 
this  man  has  provided  us  a  greater  pleasure  than  any 
S  other  individual,  at  whose  cost  we  now  enjoy  ourselves; 
perhaps  has  done  us  a  greater  service  than  can  be  specially 
attributed  to  more  than  two  or  three:  yet,  ungrateful 
that  we  are,  no  written  or  spoken  eulogy  of  James  Bos- 
well  anywhere  exists;   his  recompense  in  solid   pudding 

10  (so  far  as  copyright  went)  was  not  excessive;  and  as  for 
the  empty  praise,  it  has  altogether  been  denied  him. 
Men  are  unwiser  than  children;  they  do  not  know  the 
hand  that  feeds  them. 

Boswell  was  a  person  whose  mean  or  bad  qualities 

15  lay  open  to  the  general  eye;  visible,  palpable  to  the 
dullest.  His  good  qualities,  again,  belonged  not  to  the 
Time  he  lived  in;  were  far  from  common  then;  indeed, 
in  such  a  degree,  were  almost  unexampled;  not  recog- 
nizable therefore  by  every  one;  nay,  apt  even  (so  strange 

20  had  they  grown)  to  be  confounded  with  the  very  vices 
they  lay  contiguous  to  and  had  sprung  out  of.  That 
he  was  a  wine-bibber  and  gross  liver;  gluttonously  fond 
of  whatever  would  yield  him  a  little  solacement,  were 
it  only  of  a  stomachic  character,  is  undeniable  enough. 

25  That  he  was  vain,  heedless,  a  babbler;  had  much  of  the 
sycophant,  alternating  with  the  braggadocio,  curiously 
spiced  too  with  an  all-pervading  dash  of  the  coxcomb; 
that  he  gloried  much  when  the  Tailor,  by  a  court-suit, 
had  made  a  new  man  of  him;  that  he  appeared  at  the 

30  Shakespeare  Jubilee  with  a  riband,  imprinted  "  Corsica 


BOS  WELL'S  LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  7 1 

Boswell,"  round  his  hat;  and  in  short,  if  you  will, 
lived  no  day  of  his  life  without  doing  and  saying  more 
than  one  pretentious  ineptitude:  all  this  unhappily  is 
evident  as  the  sun  at  noon.  The  very  look  of  Boswell 
seems  to  have  signified  so  much.  In  that  cocked  nose,  5 
cocked  partly  in  triumph  over  his  weaker  fellow-crea- 
tures, partly  to  snuff  up  the  smell  of  coming  pleasure, 
and  scent  it  from  afar;  in  those  bag-cheeks,  hanging  like 
half-filled  wine-skins,  still  able  to  contain  more;  in  that 
coarsely  protruded  shelf-mouth,  that  fat  dewlapped  chin,  10 
in  all  this,  who  sees  not  sensuality,  pretension,  boisterous 
imbecility  enough;  much  that  could  not  have  been  orna- 
mental in  the  temper  of  a  great  man's  overfed  great  man 
(what  the  Scotch  name  funky),  though  it  had  been  more 
natural  there?  The  under  part  of  BoswelFs  face  is  of  15 
a  low,  almost  brutish  character. 

Unfortunately,  on  the  other  hand,  what  great  and 
genuine  good  lay  in  him  was  nowise  so  self-evident. 
That  Boswell  was  a  hunter  after  spiritual  Notabilities, 
that  he  loved  such,  and  longed,  and  even  crept  and  20 
crawled  to  be  near  them;  that  he  first  (in  old  Touch- 
wood Auchinleck's  phraseology)  "took  on  with  Paoli;" 
and  then  being  off  with  "the  Corsican  landlouper,"  took 
on  with  a  schoolmaster,  "ane  that  keeped  a  schule,  and 
ca'd  it  an  academy:"  that  he  did  all  this,  and  could  not  25 
help  doing  it,  we  account  a  very  singular  merit.  The 
man,  once  for  all,  had  an  "open  sense,"  an  open  loving 
heart,  which  so  few  have:  where  Excellence  existed,  he 
was  compelled  to  acknowledge  it;  was  drawn  towards 
it,  and  (let  the  old  sulphur-brand  of  a  Laird  say  what  30 


72  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

he  liked)  could  not  but  walk  with  it, — if  not  as  superior, 
if  not  as  equal,  then  as  inferior  and  lackey,  better 
so  than  not  at  all.  If  we  reflect  now  that  this 
love  of  Excellence  had  not  only  such  an  evil  nature 
5  to  triumph  over;  but  also  what  an  education  and  social 
position  withstood  it  and  weighed  it  down,  its  innate 
strength,  victorious  over  all  these  things,  may  astonish 
us.  Consider  what  an  inward  impulse  there  must  have 
been,  how  many  mountains  of  impediment  hurled  aside, 

10  before  the  Scottish  Laird  could,  as  humble  servant,  em- 
brace the  knees  (the  bosom  was  not  permitted  him)  of 
the  English  Dominie!  "Your  Scottish  Laird,"  says  an 
English  naturalist  of  these  days,  "may  be  defined  as 
the  hungriest  and  vainest   of  all   bipeds   yet   known." 

15  Boswell  too  was  a  Tory;  of  quite  peculiarly  feudal, 
genealogical,  pragmatical  temper;  had  been  nurtured 
in  an  atmosphere  of  Heraldry,  at  the  feet  of  a  very 
Gamaliel  in  that  kind;  within  bare  walls,  adorned  only 
with  pedigrees,  amid  serving- men  in  threadbare  livery; 

20  all  things  teaching  him,  from  birth  upwards,  to  remember 
that  a  Laird  was  a  Laird.  Perhaps  there  was  a  special 
vanity  in  his  very  blood:  old  Auchinleck  had,  if  not  the 
gay,  tail-spreading,  peacock  vanity  of  his  son,  no  little  of 
the  slow-stalking,  contentious,  hissing  vanity  of  the  gan- 

25  der;  a  still  more  fatal  species.  Scottish  Advocates  will  yet 
tell  you  how  the  ancient  man,  having  chanced  to  be  the 
first  sheriff  appointed  (after  the  abolition  of  "hereditary 
jurisdictions")  by  royal  authority,  was  wont,  in  dull  pom- 
pous tone,  to  preface  many  a  deliverance  from  the  bench 

30  with  these  words:  "I,  the  first  King's  Sheriff  in  Scotland  " 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  73 

And  now  behold  the  worthy  Bozzy,  so  prepossessed 
and  held  back  by  nature  and  by  art,  fly  nevertheless 
like  iron  to  its  magnet,  whither  his  better  genius  called! 
You  may  surround  the  iron  and  the  magnet  with  what 
enclosures  and  encumbrances  you  please, — with  wood,  5 
with  rubbish,  with  brass:  it  matters  not,  the  two  feel 
each  other,  they  struggle  restlessly  towards  each  other, 
they  will  be  together.  The  iron  may  be  a  Scottish  squire- 
let,  full  of  gulosity  and  "gigmanity;"  *  the  magnet  an 
English  plebeian,  and  moving  rag-and-dust  mountain,  10 
coarse,  proud,  irascible,  imperious:  nevertheless,  behold 
how  they  embrace,  and  inseparably  cleave  to  one  another  1 
It  is  one  of  the  strangest  phenomena  of  the  past  century, 
that  at  a  time  when  the  old  reverent  feeling  of  disciple- 
ship  (such  as  brought  men  from  far  countries,  with  rich  15 
gifts,  and  prostrate  soul,  to  the  feet  of  the  Prophets)  had 
passed  utterly  away  from  men's  practical  experience, 
and  was  no  longer  surmised  to  exist  (as  it  does),  perennial, 
indestructible,  in  man's  inmost  heart, — James  Boswell 
should  have  been  the  individual,  of  all  others,  predes-  20 
tined  to  recall  it,  in  such  singular  guise,  to  the  wonder- 
ing, and  for  a  long  while,  laughing  and  unrecognizing 
world. 

It  has  been  commonly  said,  The  man's  vulgar  vanity 
was  all  that  attached  him  to  Johnson;  he  delighted  to  be  25 
seen  near  him,  to  be  thought  connected  with  him.    Now 

t"Q.  What  do  you  mean  by  'respectable'?—^.  He  always 
kept  a  gig."  ( ThurtelVs  Trial.)—"  Thus,"  it  has  been  said, 
"  does  society  naturally  divide  itself  into  four  classes :  Noblemen, 
Gentlemen,  Gigmen,  and  Men."  30 


74  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

let  it  be  at  once  granted  that  no  consideration  spring- 
ing out  of  vulgar  vanity  could  well  be  absent  from  the 
mind  of  James  Boswell,  in  this  his  intercourse  with 
Johnson,  or  in  any  considerable  transaction  of  his  life. 
5  At  the  same  time,  ask  yourself:  Whether  such  vanity, 
and  nothing  else,  actuated  him  therein;  whether  this 
was  the  true  essence  and  moving  principle  of  the  phe- 
nomenon, or  not  rather  its  outward  vesture,  and  the  acci- 
dental environment  (and  defacement)  in  which  it  came 

io  to  light?  The  man  was,  by  nature  and  habit,  vain;  a 
sycophant-coxcomb,  be  it  granted:  but  had  there  been 
nothing  more  than  vanity  in  him,  was  Samuel  Johnson 
the  man  of  men  to  whom  he  must  attach  himself? 
At  the  date  when   Johnson   wae  a   poor  rusty-coated 

15  "  scholar,"  dwelling  in  Temple-lane,  and  indeed  through- 
out their  whole  intercourse  afterwards,  were  there  not 
chancellors  and  prime  ministers  enough;  graceful  gentle- 
men, the  glass  of  fashion;  honor-giving  noblemen;  din- 
ner-giving rich  men;  renowned  fire-eaters,  swordsmen, 

20  gownsmen;  Quacks  and  Realities  of  all  hues, — any  one 
of  whom  bulked  much  larger  in  the  world's  eye  than 
Johnson  ever  did?  To  any  one  of  whom,  by  half  that 
submissiveness  and  assiduity,  our  Bozzy  might  have 
recommended  himself;  and  sat  there,  the  envy  of  sur- 

25  rounding  lick-spittles;  pocketing  now  solid  emolument, 
swallowing  now  well-cooked  viands  and  wines  of  rich 
vintage;  in  each  case,  also,  shone  on  by  some  glittering 
reflex  of  Renown  or  Notoriety,  so  as  to  be  the  observed 
of  innumerable  observers.    To  no  one  of  whom,  how- 

30  ever,  though  otherwise  a  most  diligent  solicitor  and  pur- 


liOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  75 

veyor,  did  he  so  attach  himself:  such  vulgar  courtier- 
ships  were  his  paid  drudgery,  or  leisure-amusement;  the 
worship  of  Johnson  was  his  grand,  ideal,  voluntary 
business.  Does  not  the  frothy-hearted  yet  enthusiastic 
man,  doffing  his  Advocate's-wig,  regularly  take  post,  5 
and  hurry  up  to  London,  for  the  sake  of  his  Sage  chiefly; 
as  to  a  Feast  of  Tabernacles,  the  Sabbath  of  his  whole 
year?  The  plate-licker  and  wine-bibber  dives  into  Bolt 
Court,  to  sip  muddy  coffee  with  a  cynical  old  man  and 
a  sour-tempered  blind  old  woman  (feeling  the  cups,  10 
whether  they  are  full,  with  her  finger);  and  patiently 
endures  contradictions  without  end;  too  happy  so  he 
may  but  be  allowed  to  listen  and  live.  Nay,  it  does  not 
appear  that  vulgar  vanity  could  ever  have  been  much 
flattered  by  Boswell's  relation  to  Johnson.  Mr.  Croker  15 
says,  Johnson  was,  to  the  last,  little  regarded  by  the 
great  world;  from  which,  for  a  vulgar  vanity,  all  honor, 
as  from  its  fountain,  descends.  Bozzy,  even  among 
Johnson's  friends  and  special  admirers,  seems  rather  to 
have  been  laughed  at  than  envied:  his  officious,  whisk-  20 
ing,  consequential  ways,  the  daily  reproofs  and  rebuffs 
he  underwent,  could  gain  from  the  world  no  golden,  but 
only  leaden,  opinions.  His  devout  Discipleship  seemed 
nothing  more  than  a  mean  Spanielship,  in  the  general 
eye.  His  mighty  "constellation,"  or  sun,  round  whom  25 
he,  as  satellite,  observantly  gyrated,  was,  for  the  mass  of 
men,  but  a  huge  ill-snuffed  tallow-light,  and  he  a  weak 
night-moth,  circling  foolishly,  dangerously  about  it, 
not  knowing  what  he  wanted.  If  he  enjoyed  Highland 
dinners  and  toasts,  as  henchman  to  a  new  sort  of  chief-  30 


76  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

tain,  Henry  Erskine,  in  the  domestic  "  Outer-House," 
could  hand  him  a  shilling  "for  the  sight  of  his  Bear." 
Doubtless  the  man  was  laughed  at,  and  often  heard  him- 
self laughed  at  for  his  Johnsonism.  To  be  envied  is  the 
5  grand  and  sole  aim  of  vulgar  vanity;  to  be  filled  with 
good  things  is  that  of  sensuality:  for  Johnson  perhaps 
no  man  living  envied  poor  Bozzy;  and  of  good  things 
(except  himself  paid  for  them)  there  was  no  vestige  in 
that  acquaintanceship.     Had   nothing   other   or   better 

10  than  vanity  and  sensuality  been  there,  Johnson  and 
Boswell  had  never  come  together,  or  had  soon  and  finally 
separated  again. 

In  fact,  the  so  copious  terrestrial  Dross  that  welters 
chaotically,  as  the  outer  sphere  of  this  man's  character, 

15  does  but  render  for  us  more  remarkable,  more  touching, 
the  celestial  spark  of  goodness,  of  light,  and  Reverence 
for  Wisdom  which  dwelt  in  the  interior,  and  could 
struggle  through  such  encumbrances,  and  in  some  de- 
gree  illuminate   and   beautify   them.      There   is   much 

20  lying  yet  undeveloped  in  the  love  of  Boswell  for  John- 
son. A  cheering  proof,  in  a  time  which  else  utterly 
wanted  and  still  wants  such,  that  living  Wisdom  is  quite 
infinitely  precious  to  man,  is  the  symbol  of  the  Godlike 
to  him,  which  even  weak  eyes  may  discern;  that  Loyalty, 

25  Discipleship,  all  that  was  ever  meant  by  Hero-worship, 
lives  perennially  in  the  human  bosom,  and  waits,  even 
in  these  dead  days,  only  for  occasions  to  unfold  it,  and 
inspire  all  men  with  it,  and  again  make  the  world  alive! 
James  Boswell  we  can  regard  as  a  practical  witness  (or 

30  real  martyr)  to  this  high  everlasting  truth.    A  wonderful 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  77 

martyr,  if  you  will;  and  in  time  which  made  such  martyr- 
dom doubly  wonderful:  yet  the  time  and  its  martyr  per- 
haps suited  each  other.  For  a  decrepit,  death-sick  Era, 
when  Cant  had  first  decisively  opened  her  poison- 
breathing  lips  to  proclaim  that  God-worship  and  Mam-  5 
mon-worship  were  one  and  the  same,  that  Life  was  a 
Lie,  and  the  Earth  Beelzebub's,  which  the  Supreme 
Quack  should  inherit;  and  so  all  things  were  fallen  into 
the  yellow  leaf,  and  fast  hastening  to  noisome  corruption: 
for  such  an  Era,  perhaps  no  better  Prophet  than  a  parti-  10 
colored  Zany-Prophet,  concealing  (from  himself  and 
others)  his  prophetic  significance  in  such  unexpected 
vestures, — was  deserved,  or  would  have  been  in  place. 
A  precious  medicine  lay  hidden  in  floods  of  coarsest, 
most  composite  treacle;  the  world  swallowed  the  treacle,  15 
for  it  suited  the  world's  palate;  and  now,  after  half  a 
century,  may  the  medicine  also  begin  to  show  itself! 
James  Boswell  belonged,  in  his  corruptible  part,  to  the 
lowest  classes  of  mankind;  a  foolish,  inflated  creature, 
swimming  in  an  element  of  self-conceit:  but  in  his  cor-  20 
ruptible  there  dwelt  an  incorruptible,  all  the  more  im- 
pressive and  indubitable  for  the  strange  lodging  it  had 
taken. 

Consider,  too,  with  what  force,  diligence,  and  vivacity 
he  has  rendered  back  all  this  which,  in  Johnson's  neigh-  25 
borhood,  his  "open  sense"  had  so  eagerly  and  freely 
taken  in.  That  loose-flowing,  careless-looking  Work  of 
his  is  as  a  picture  painted  by  one  of  Nature's  own  Ar- 
tists; the  best  possible  resemblance  of  a  Reality;  like 
the  very  image  thereof  in  a  clear  mirror.    Which  indeed  30 


78  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

it  was:  let  but  the  mirror  be  clear,  this  is  the  great  point; 
the  picture  must  and  will  be  genuine.  How  the  babbling 
Bozzy,  inspired  only  by  love,  and  the  recognition  and 
vision  which  love  can  lend,  epitomizes  nightly  the  words 
5  of  Wisdom,  the  deeds  and  aspects  of  Wisdom,  and  so, 
by  little  and  little,  unconsciously  works  together  for  us 
a  whole  Johnsoniad;  a  more  free,  perfect,  sunlit,  and 
spirit-speaking  likeness  than  for  many  centuries  had 
been  drawn  by  man  of  man!     Scarcely  since  the  days 

10  of  Homer  has  the  feat  been  equaled;  indeed,  in  many 
senses,  this  also  is  a  kind  of  heroic  poem.  The  fit 
Odyssey  of  our  unheroic  age  was  to  be  written,  not  sung; 
of  a  Thinker,  not  of  a  Fighter;  and  (for  want  of  a  Homer) 
by  the  first  open  soul  that  might  offer, — looked  such  even 

15  through  the  organs  of  a  Boswell.  We  do  the  man's 
intellectual  endowment  great  wrong,  if  we  measure  it 
by  its  mere  logical  outcome;  though  here,  too,  there  is 
not  wanting  a  light  ingenuity,  a  figurativeness  and 
fanciful  sport,  with  glimpses  of  insight  far  deeper  than 

20  the  common.  But  BoswelPs  grand  intellectual  talent 
was  (as  such  ever  is)  an  unconscious  one,  of  far  higher 
reach  and  significance  than  Logic;  and  showed  itself 
in  the  whole,  not  in  parts.  Here  again  we  have  that  old 
saying  verified,  "The  heart  sees  farther  than  the  head." 

25  Thus  does  poor  Bozzy  stand  out  to  us  as  an  ill-assorted, 
glaring  mixture  of  the  highest  and  the  lowest.  What, 
indeed,  is  man's  life  generally  but  a  kind  of  beast- 
godhood;  the  god  in  us  triumphing  more  and  more  over 
the  beast;  striving  more  and  more  to  subdue  it  under 

30  his  feet?    Did  not  the  Ancients,  in  their  wise,  peren- 


boswell's  life  of  johnson  79 

nially- significant  way,  figure  Nature  itself,  their  sacred 
All,  or  Pan,  as  a  portentous  commingling  of  these  two 
discords;  as  musical,  humane,  oracular  in  its  upper  part, 
yet  ending  below  in  the  cloven  hairy  feet  of  a  goat? 
The  union  of  melodious,  celestial  Free-will  and  Reason  5 
with  foul  Irrationality  and  Lust;  in  which,  nevertheless, 
dwelt  a  mysterious  unspeakable  Fear  and  half-mad 
panic  Awe;  as  for  mortals  there  well  might!  And  is 
not  man  a  microcosm,  or  epitomized  mirror  of  that  same 
Universe;  or  rather,  is  not  that  Universe  even  Himself,  10 
the  reflex  of  his  own  fearful  and  wonderful  being,  "the 
waste  fantasy  of  his  own  dream?  "  No  wonder  that  man, 
that  each  man,  and  James  Boswell  like  the  others, 
should  resemble  it!  The  peculiarity  in  his  case  was  the 
unusual  defect  of  amalgamation  and  subordination:  the  15 
highest  lay  side  by  side  with  the  lowest;  not  morally 
combined  with  it  and  spiritually  transfiguring  it,  but 
tumbling  in  half-mechanical  juxtaposition  with  it,  and 
from  time  to  time,  as  the  mad  alternation  chanced,  ir- 
radiating it,  or  eclipsed  by  it.  20 

The  world,  as  we  said,  has  been  but  unjust  to  him; 
discerning  only  the  outer  terrestrial  and  often  sordid 
mass;  without  eye,  as  it  generally  is,  for  his  inner  divine 
secret;  and  thus  figuring  him  no  wise  as  a  god  Pan,  but 
simply  of  the  bestial  species,  like  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  25 
hills.  Nay,  sometimes  a  strange  enough  hypothesis  has 
been  started  of  him;  as  if  it  were  in  virtue  even  of  these 
same  bad  qualities  that  he  did  his  good  work;  as  if  it 
were  the  very  fact  of  his  being  among  the  worst  men  in 
this  world  that  had  enabled  him  to  write  one  of  the  best  3° 


80  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

books  therein!  Falser  hypothesis,  we  may  venture  to 
say,  never  rose  in  human  soul.  Bad  is  by  its  nature 
negative,  and  can  do  nothing;  whatsoever  enables  us  to 
do  anything  is  by  its  very  nature  good.  Alas,  that  there 
5  should  be  teachers  in  Israel,  or  even  learners,  to  whom 
this  world-ancient  fact  is  still  problematical,  or  even 
deniable!  Boswell  wrote  a  good  Book  because  he  had  a 
heart  and  an  eye  to  discern  Wisdom,  and  an  utterance 
to  render  it  forth;  because  of  his  free  insight,  his  lively 

10  talent,  above  all,  of  his  Love  and  childlike  Open-minded- 
ness.  His  sneaking  sycophancies,  his  greediness  and 
forwardness,  whatever  was  bestial  and  earthly  in  him, 
are  so  many  blemishes  in  his  Book,  which  still  disturb 
us  in  its  clearness;  wholly  hindrances,  not  helps.     To- 

15  wards  Johnson,  however,  his  feeling  was  not  Sycophancy, 
which  is  the  lowest,  but  Reverence,  which  is  the  highest 
of  human  feelings.  None  but  a  reverent  man  (which  so 
unspeakably  few  are)  could  have  found  his  way  from 
Boswell's  environment  to  Johnson's:  if  such  worship  for 

20  real  God-made  superiors  showed  itself  also  as  worship 
for  apparent  Tailor-made  superiors,  even  as  hollow  in- 
terested mouth-worship  for  such, — the  case,  in  this 
composite  human  nature  of  ours,  was  not  miraculous, 
the  more  was  the  pity!    But  for  ourselves,  let  every  one 

25  of  us  cling  to  this  last  article  of  Faith,  and  know  it  as 
the  beginning  of  all  knowledge  worth  the  name:  That 
neither  James  Boswell's  good  Book,  nor  any  other  good 
thing,  in  any  time  or  in  any  place,  was,  is,  or  can  be  per- 
formed by  any  man  in  virtue  of  his  badness,  but  always 

30  and  solely  in  spite  thereof. 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  8l 

As  for  the  Book  itself,  questionless  the  universal  favor 
entertained  for  it  is  well  merited.  In  worth  as  a  Book 
we  have  rated  it  beyond  any  other  product  of  the  eight- 
eenth century:  all  Johnson's  own  Writings,  laborious 
and  in  their  kind  genuine  above  most,  stand  on  a  quite  5 
inferior  level  to  it;  already,  indeed,  they  are  becoming 
obsolete  for  this  generation;  and  for  some  future  genera- 
tion may  be  valuable  chiefly  as  Prolegomena  and  ex- 
pository Scholia  to  this  Johnsoniad  of  Boswell.  Which 
of  us  but  remembers,  as  one  of  the  sunny  spots  in  his  10 
existence,  the  day  when  he  opened  these  airy  volumes, 
fascinating  him  by  a  true  natural-magic!  It  was  as  if 
the  curtains  of  the  past  were  drawn  aside,  and  we  looked 
mysteriously  into  a  kindred  country,  where  dwelt  our 
Fathers;  inexpressibly  dear  to  us,  but  which  had  seemed  15 
forever  hidden  from  our  eyes.  For  the  dead  Night  had 
engulfed  it;  all  was  gone,  vanished  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
Nevertheless,  wondrously  given  back  to  us,  there  once 
more  it  lay;  all  bright,  lucid,  blooming;  a  little  island 
of  Creation  amid  the  circumambient  Void.  There  it  20 
still  lies;  like  a  thing  stationary,  imperishable,  over  which 
changeful  Time  were  now  accumulating  itself  in  vain, 
and  could  not,  any  longer,  harm  it  or  hide  it. 

If  we  examine  by  what  charm  it  is  that  men  are  still 
held  to  this  Life  of  Johnson,  now  when  so  much  else  has  25 
been  forgotten,  the  main  part  of  the  answer  will  perhaps 
be  found  in  that  speculation  "on  the  import  of  Reality," 
communicated  to  the  world,  last  Month,  in  this  Maga- 
zine. The  Johnsoniad  of  Boswell  turns  on  objects  that 
in  very  deed  existed;  it  is  all  true.  So  far  other  in  melo-  3° 
Prose — 6 


82  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

diousness  of  tone,  it  vies  with  the  Odyssey,  or  surpasses 
it,  in  this  one  point:  to  us  these  read  pages,  as  those 
chanted  hexameters  were  to  the  first  Greek  hearers,  are, 
in  the  fullest,  deepest  sense,  wholly  credible.  All  the  wit 
5  and  wisdom  lying  embalmed  in  Boswell's  Book,  plen- 
teous as  these  are,  could  not  have  saved  it.  Far  more 
scientific  instruction  (mere  excitement  and  enlighten- 
ment of  the  thinking  power)  can  be  found  in  twenty 
other  works  of  that  time,  which  make  but  a  quite  sec- 

io  ondary  impression  on  us.  The  other  works  of  that  time, 
however,  fall  under  one  of  two  classes:  either  they  are 
professedly  Didactic;  and,  in  that  way,  mere  Abstrac- 
tions, Philosophic  Diagrams,  incapable  of  interesting  us 
much  otherwise  than  as  Euclid's  Elements  may  do;  or 

15  else,  with  all  their  vivacity  and  pictorial  richness  of  color, 
they  are  Fictions  and  not  Realities.  Deep,  truly,  as  Herr 
Sauerteig  urges,  is  the  force  of  this  consideration:  the 
thing  here  stated  is  a  fact;  these  figures,  that  local  habi- 
tation, are  not  shadow  but  substance.    In  virtue  of  such 

20  advantages,  see  how  a  very  Boswell  may  become  Poet- 
ical! 

Critics  insist  much  on  the  poet  that  he  should  com- 
municate an  "Infinitude"  to  his  delineation;  that  by 
intensity  of  conception,  by  that  gift  of  "transcendental 

25  Thought,"  which  is  fitly  named  genius  and  inspiration, 
he  should  inform  the  Finite  with  a  certain  Infinitude  of 
significance;  or,  as  they  sometimes  say,  ennoble  the  Ac- 
tual into  Idealness.  They  are  right  in  their  precept;  they 
mean  rightly.     But  in  cases  like  this  of  the  Johnsoniad 

30  (such  is  the  dark  grandeur  of  that  "Time-element," 


boswell's  life  or  johnson  83 

wherein  man's  soul  here  below  lives  imprisoned),  the 
Poet's  task  is,  as  it  were,  done  to  his  hand:  Time  itself, 
which  is  the  outer  veil  of  eternity,  invests,  of  its  own  ac- 
cord, with  an  authentic,  felt  "infinitude"  whatsoever 
it  has  once  embraced  in  its  mysterious  folds.  Consider  5 
all  that  lies  in  that  one  word  Past!  What  a  pathetic, 
sacred,  in  every  sense  poetic,  meaning  is  implied  in  it; 
a  meaning  growing  ever  the  clearer,  the  farther  we  re- 
cede in  Time, — the  more  of  that  same  Past  we  have  to 
look  through! — On  which  ground  indeed  must  Sauerteig  10 
have  built,  and  not  without  plausibility,  in  that  strange 
thesis  of  his:  "that  History,  after  all,  is  the  true  Poetry; 
that  Reality,  if  rightly  interpreted,  is  grander  than  Fic- 
tion; nay  that  even  in  the  right  interpretation  of  Reality 
and  History  does  genuine  Poetry  consist."  15 

Thus  for  Boswell's  Life  0}  Johnson  has  Time  done, 
is  Time  still  doing,  what  no  ornament  of  Art  or  Arti- 
fice could  have  done  for  it.  Rough  Samuel  and  sleek 
wheedling  James  were,  and  are  not.  Their  Life  and 
whole  personal  Environment  has  melted  into  air.  The  20 
Mitre  Tavern  still  stands  in  Fleet  Street;  but  where  now 
is  its  scot-and-lot  paying,  beef-and-ale  loving,  cocked- 
hatted  pot-bellied  Landlord;  its  rosy-faced,  assiduous 
Landlady,  with  all  her  shining  brass-pans,  waxed  tables, 
well-filled  larder-shelves;  her  cooks,  and  bootjacks,  and  25 
errand-boys,  and  watery-mouthed  hangers-on?  Gone! 
Gone!  The  becking  waiter,  that  with  wreathed  smiles, 
wont  to  spread  for  Samuel  and  Bozzy  their  supper  of 
the  gods,  has  long  since  pocketed  his  last  sixpence;  and 
vanished,  sixpences  and  all,  like  a  ghost  at  cock-crowing.  30 


84  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

The  Bottles  they  drank  out  of  are  all  broken,  the  Chairs 
they  sat  on  all  rotted  and  burnt;  the  very  Knives  and 
Forks  they  ate  with  have  rusted  to  the  heart,  and  become 
brown  oxide  of  iron,  and  mingled  with  the  indiscriminate 
5  clay.  All,  all,  has  vanished;  in  very  deed  and  truth, 
like  that  baseless  fabric  of  Prospero's  air-vision.  Of 
the  Mitre  Tavern  nothing  but  the  bare  walls  remain 
there:  of  London,  of  England,  of  the  World,  nothing  but 
the  bare  walls  remain;  and  these  also  decaying  (were 

10  they  of  adamant),  only  slower.  The  mysterious  River  of 
Existence  rushes  on:  a  new  Billow  thereof  has  arrived, 
and  lashes  wildly  as  ever  round  the  old  embankments; 
but  the  former  Billow,  with  its  loud,  mad  eddyings, 
where  is  it? — Where! — Now  this   Book   of   Boswell's, 

IS  this  is  precisely  a  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Destiny; 
so  that  Time  shall  not  utterly,  not  so  soon  by  several 
centuries,  have  dominion  over  us.  A  little  row  of  Naph- 
tha-lamps, with  its  line  of  Naphtha-light,  burns  clear 
and  holy  through  the  dead  Night  of  the  Past :  they  who 

20  were  gone  are  still  here;  though  hidden  they  are  re- 
vealed, though  dead  they  yet  speak.  There  it  shines, 
that  little  miraculously  lamp-lit  Pathway;  shedding  its 
feebler  and  feebler  twilight  into  the  boundless  dark 
Oblivion,  for  all  that  our  Johnson  touched  has  become 

25  illuminated  for  us:  on  which  miraculous  little  pathway 
we  can  still  travel,  and  see  wonders. 

It  is  not  speaking  with  exaggeration,  but  with  strict 
measured  sobriety,  to  say  that  this  Book  of  Boswell's 
will  give  us  more  real  insight  into  the  History  of  England 

30  during  those  days  than  twenty  other  Books,  falsely  en- 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  85 

titled  "Histories,"  which  take  to  themselves  that  special 
aim.  What  good  is  it  to  me  though  innumerable  Smol- 
letts  and  Belshams  keep  dinning  in  my  ears  that  a  man 
named  George  the  Third  was  born  and  bred  up,  and  a 
man  named  George  the  Second  died;  that  Walpole,  and  5 
the  Pelhams,  and  Chatham,  and  Rockingham,  and  Shel- 
burne,  and  North,  with  their  Coalition  or  their  Separation 
Ministries,  all  ousted  one  another;  and  vehemently 
scrambled  for  "  the  thing  they  called  the  Rudder  of  Gov- 
ernment, but  which  was  in  reality  the  Spigot  of  Taxa-  10 
tion"?  That  debates  were  held,  and  infinite  jarring 
and  jargoning  took  place;  and  road-bills  and  enclosure- 
bills,  and  game-bills  and  India-bills,  and  Laws  which 
no  man  can  number,  which  happily  few  men  needed  to 
trouble  their  heads  with  beyond  the  passing  moment,  15 
were  enacted,  and  printed  by  the  King's  Stationer? 
That  he  who  sat  in  Chancery  and  rayed-out  speculation 
from  the  Woolsack,  was  now  a  man  that  squinted,  now 
a  man  that  did  not  squint?  To  the  hungry  and  thirsty 
mind  all  this  avails  next  to  nothing.  These  men  and  20 
these  things,  we  indeed  know,  did  swim,  by  strength  or 
by  specific  levity  as  apples  or  as  horse-dung,  on  the  top 
of  the  current;  but  is  it  by  painfully  noting  the  courses, 
eddyings,  and  bobbings  hither  and  thither  of  such  drift- 
articles  that  you  will  unfold  to  me  the  nature  of  the  cur-  25 
rent  itself;  of  that  mighty-rolling,  loud-roaring  Life- 
current,  bottomless  as  the  foundations  of  the  Universe, 
mysterious  as  its  Author  ?  The  thing  I  want  to  see  is  not 
Redbook  Lists,  and  Court  Calendars,  and  Parliamentary 
Registers,  but  the  Life  of  Man  in  England:  what  men  30 


86  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

did,  thought,  suffered,  enjoyed;  the  form,  especially  the 
spirit,  of  their  terrestrial  existence,  its  outward  environ- 
ment, its  inward  principle;  how  and  what  it  was;  whence 
it  proceeded,  whither  it  was  tending. 
5  Mournful,  in  truth,  is  it  to  behold  what  the  business 
called  "History,"  in  these  so  enlightened  and  illuminated 
times,  still  continues  to  be.  Can  you  gather  from  it, 
read  till  your  eyes  go  out,  any  dimmest  shadow  of  an 
answer  to  that  great  question:  How  men  lived  and  had 

10  their  being;  were  it  but  economically,  as  what  wages 
they  got,  and  what  they  bought  with  these?  Unhappily 
you  cannot.  History  will  throw  no  light  on  any  such 
matter.  At  the  point  where  living  memory  fails,  it  is 
all  darkness;  Mr.  Senior  and  Mr.  Sadler  must  still  de- 

15  bate  this  simplest  of  all  elements  in  the  condition  of  the 
Past:  Whether  men  were  better  off,  in  their  mere  larders 
and  pantries,  or  were  worse  off  than  now!  History,  as 
it  stands  all  bound  up  in  gilt  volumes,  is  but  a  shade  more 
instructive  than  the  wooden  volumes  of  a  Backgammon* 

20  board.  How  my  Prime  Minister  was  appointed  is  of 
less  moment  to  me  than  How  my  House  Servant  was 
hired.  In  these  days,  ten  ordinary  Histories  of  King 
and  Courtiers  were  well  exchanged  against  the  tenth  part 
of  one  good  History  of  Booksellers. 

25  For  example,  I  would  fain  know  the  History  of  Scot- 
land: who  can  tell  it  me?  "  Robertson,"  say  innumerable 
voices;  "Robertson  against  the  world."  I  open  Robert- 
son; and  find  there,  through  long  ages  too  confused  for 
narrative,  and  fit  only  to  be  presented  in  the  way  of 

30  epitome  and  distilled  essence,  a  cunning  answer  and 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  87 

hypothesis,  not  to  this  question:  By  whom,  and  by  what 
means,  when  and  how,  was  this  fair  broad  Scotland, 
with  its  Arts  and  Manufactures,  Temples,  Schools, 
Institutions,  Poetry,  Spirit,  National  Character,  created, 
and  made  arable,  verdant,  peculiar,  great,  here  as  I  5 
can  see  some  fair  section  of  it  lying,  kind  and  strong 
(like  some  Bacchus-tamed  Lion),  from  the  Castle-hill 
of  Edinburgh? — but  to  this  other  question:  How  did 
the  king  keep  himself  alive  in  those  old  days;  and  restrain 
so  many  Butcher  Barons  and  ravenous  Henchmen  from  10 
utterly  extirpating  one  another,  so  that  killing  went  on 
in  some  sort  of  moderation?  In  the  one  little  Letter  of 
jLneas  Sylvius,  from  old  Scotland,  there  is  more  of  His- 
tory than  in  all  this. — At  length,  however,  we  come  to  a 
luminous  age,  interesting  enough:  to  the  age  of  the  15 
Reformation.  All  Scotland  is  awakened  to  a  second 
higher  life;  the  Spirit  of  the  Highest  stirs  in  every  bosom, 
agitates  every  bosom;  Scotland  is  convulsed,  fermenting, 
struggling  to  body  itself  forth  anew.  To  the  herdsman, 
among  his  cattle  in  remote  woods;  to  the  craftsman,  in  20 
his  rude,  heath-thatched  workshop,  among  his  rude 
guild-brethren;  to  the  great  and  to  the  little,  a  new  light 
has  arisen:  in  town  and  hamlet  groups  are  gathered,  with 
eloquent  looks,  and  governed  or  ungovernable  tongues; 
the  great  and  the  little  go  forth  together  to  do  battle  25 
for  the  Lord  against  the  mighty.  We  ask,  with  breath- 
less eagerness:  How  was  it;  how  went  it  on?  Let  us 
understand  it,  let  us  see  it,  and  know  it!— In  reply,  is 
handed  us  a  really  graceful  and  most  dainty  little  Scan- 
dalous Chronicle  (as  for  some  Journal  of  Fashion)  of  3° 


88  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

two  persons:  Mary  Stuart,  a  Beauty,  but  over  light- 
headed; and  Henry  Darnley,  a  Booby,  who  had  finf 
legs.  How  these  first  courted,  billed,  and  cooed,  accord- 
ing to  nature;  then  pouted,  fretted,  grew  utterly  enraged, 
5  and  blew  one  another  up  with  gunpowder:  this,  and  not 
the  History  of  Scotland,  is  what  we  good-naturedly  read. 
Nay,  by  other  hands,  something  like  a  horse-load  of 
other  Books  have  been  written  to  prove  that  it  was  the 
Beauty  who  blew  up  the  Booby,  and  that  it  was  not  she. 

io  Who  or  what  it  was,  the  thing  once  for  all  being  so  ef- 
fectually done,  concerns  us  little.  To  know  Scotland,  at 
that  great  epoch,  were  a  valuable  increase  to  knowledge: 
to  know  poor  Darnley,  and  see  him  with  burning  candle, 
from  center  to  skin,  were  no  increase  of  knowledge  at 

15  all. — Thus  is  History  written. 

Hence,  indeed,  comes  it  that  History,  which  should 
be  "the  essence  of  innumerable  Biographies,"  will  tell 
us,  question  it  as  we  like,  less  than  one  genuine  Biog- 
raphy may  do,  pleasantly  and  of  its  own  accord!    The 

20  time  is  approaching  when  History  will  be  attempted  on 
quite  other  principles;  when  the  Court,  the  Senate,  and 
the  Battle-field,  receding  more  and  more  into  the  back- 
ground, the  Temple,  the  Workshop,  and  Social  Hearth, 
will  advance  more  and  more  into  the  foreground;  and 

25  History  will  not  content  itself  with  shaping  some  answer 
to  that  question:  How  were  men  taxed  and  kept  quiet 
then?  but  will  seek  to  answer  this  other  infinitely  wider 
and  higher  question:  How  and  what  were  men  then? 
Not  our  Government  only,  or  the  "house  wherein  our 

30  life  was  led,"  but  the  Life  itself  we  led  there,  will  be 


boswell's  life  or  johnson  89 

inquired  into.  Of  which  latter  it  may  be  found  that 
Government,  in  any  modern  sense  of  the  word,  is  after 
all  but  a  secondary  condition:  in  the  mere  sense  of  Tax- 
ation and  Keeping  quiet,  a  small,  almost  a  pitiful  one. — 
Meanwhile  let  us  welcome  such  Boswells,  each  in  his  5 
degree,  as  bring  us  any  genuine  contribution,  were  it 
never  so  inadequate,  so  inconsiderable. 

An  exception  was  early  taken  against  this  Life  of 
Johnson,  and  all  similar  enterprises,  which  we  here 
recommend;  and  has  been  transmitted  from  critic  to  10 
critic,  and  repeated  in  their  several  dialects,  uninter- 
ruptedly, ever  since:  That  such  jottings-down  of  care- 
less conversation  are  an  infringement  of  social  privacy; 
a  crime  against  our  highest  Freedom,  the  Freedom  of 
man's  intercourse  with  man.  To  this  accusation,  which  15 
we  have  read  and  heard  oftener  than  enough,  might  it 
not  be  well  for  once  to  offer  the  flattest  contradiction, 
and  plea  of  Not  at  all  guilty?  Not  that  conversa- 
tion is  noted  down,  but  that  conversation  should  not 
deserve  noting  down,  is  the  evil.  Doubtless  if  conversa-  20 
tion  be  falsely  recorded,  then  is  it  simply  a  Lie  and 
worthy  of  being  swept  with  all  dispatch  to  the  Father 
of  Lies.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  conversation  can  be 
authentically  recorded  and  any  one  is  ready  for  the  task, 
let  him  by  all  means  proceed  with  it;  let  conversation  be  25 
kept  in  remembrance  to  the  latest  date  possible.  Nay 
should  the  consciousness  that  a  man  may  be  among  us 
"taking  notes"  tend,  in  any  measure,  to  restrict  those 
floods  of  idle  insincere  speech,  with  which  the  thought  of 
mankind  is  well-nigh  drowned, — were  it  other  than  the  30 


90  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

most  indubitable  benefit  ?  He  who  speaks  honestly  cares 
not,  needs  not  care,  though  his  words  be  preserved  to 
remotest  time:  for  him  who  speaks  dishonestly,  the  fit- 
test of  all  punishments  seems  to  be  this  same,  which  the 
5  nature  of  the  case  provides.  The  dishonest  speaker,  not 
he  only  who  purposely  utters  falsehoods,  but  he  who 
does  not  purposely,  and  with  sincere  heart,  utter  Truth, 
and  Truth  alone;  who  babbles  he  knows  not  what,  and 
has  clapped  no  bridle  on  his  tongue,  but  lets  it  run  racket, 

10  ejecting  chatter  and  futility, — is  among  the  most  indis- 
putable malefactors  omitted,  or  inserted,  in  the  Criminal 
Calendar.  To  him  that  will  well  consider  it,  idle  speak- 
ing is  precisely  the  beginning  of  all  Hollowness,  Halfness, 
Infidelity  (want  of  Faithfulness);  the  genial  atmosphere 

15  in  which  rank  weeds  of  every  kind  attain  the  mastery  over 
noble  fruits  in  man's  life,  and  utterly  choke  them  out: 
one  of  the  most  crying  maladies  of  these  days,  and  to  be 
testified  against,  and  in  all  ways  to  the  uttermost  with- 
stood.   Wise,  of  a  wisdom  far  beyond  our  shallow  depth, 

20  was  that  old  precept:  Watch  thy  tongue;  out  of  it  are  the 
issues  of  Life!  "Man  is  properly  an  incarnated  word:" 
the  word  that  he  speaks  is  the  man  himself.  Were  eyes 
put  into  our  head,  that  we  might  see;  or  only  that  we 
might  fancy,  and  plausibly  pretend,  we  had  seen?    Was 

25  the  tongue  suspended  there,  that  it  might  tell  truly  what 
we  had  seen,  and  make  man  the  soul 's-br other  of  man; 
or  only  that  it  might  utter  vain  sounds,  jargon,  soul- 
confusing,  and  so  divide  man,  as  by  enchanted  walls  of 
Darkness,  from  union  with  man?    Thou  who  wearest 

30  that  cunning,  Heaven-made  organ,  a  Tongue,  think  well 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  9 1 

of  this.  Speak  not,  I  passionately  entreat  thee,  till  thy 
thought  hath  silently  matured  itself,  till  thou  have  other 
than  mad  and  mad- making  noises  to  emit:  hold  thy 
tongue  (thou  hast  it  a-holding)  till  some  meaning  lie  be- 
hind, to  set  it  wagging.  Consider  the  significance  of  5 
Silence;  it  is  boundless,  never  by  meditating  to  be  ex- 
hausted; unspeakably  profitable  to  thee!  Cease  that 
chaotic  hubbub,  wherein  thy  own  soul  runs  to  waste, 
to  confused  suicidal  dislocation  and  stupor:  out  of  Silence 
comes  thy  strength.  "  Speech  is  silvern,  Silence  is  golden;  10 
Speech  is  human,  Silence  is  divine."  Fool!  thinkest  thou 
that  because  no  Boswell  is  there  with  ass-skin  and  black- 
lead  to  note  thy  jargon,  it  therefore  dies  and  is  harmless? 
Nothing  dies,  nothing  can  die.  No  idlest  word  thou 
speakest  but  is  a  seed  cast  into  Time,  and  grows  through  15 
all  Eternity!  The  Recording  Angel,  consider  it  well, 
is  no  fable,  but  the  truest  of  truths:  the  paper  tablets  thou 
canst  burn;  of  the  "iron  leaf"  there  is  no  burning.— 
Truly,  if  we  can  permit  God  Almighty  to  note  down  our 
conversation,  thinking  it  good  enough  for  Him,— any  20 
poor  Boswell  need  not  scruple  to  work  his  will  of  it. 

Leaving  now  this  our  English  Odyssey,  with  its  Singer 
and  Scholiast,  let  us  come  to  the  Ulysses;  that  great 
Samuel  Johnson  himself,  the  far-experienced,  "much- 
enduring  man,"  whose  labors  and  pilgrimage  are  here  25 
sung.  A  full-length  image  of  his  Existence  has  been  pre- 
served for  us:  and  he,  perhaps  of  all  living  Englishmen, 
was  the  one  who  best  deserved  that  honor.  For  if  it  is 
true  and  now  almost  proverbial,  that  "the  Life  of  the 


92  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

lowest  mortal,  if  faithfully  recorded,  would  be  interest- 
ing to  the  highest;"  how  much  more  when  the  mortal  in 
question  was  already  distinguished  in  fortune  and  natural 
quality,  so  that  his  thinkings  and  doings  were  not  sig- 
S  nificant  of  himself  only,  but  of  large  masses  of  mankind! 
"There  is  not  a  man  whom  I  meet  on  the  streets,"  says 
one,  "but  I  could  like,  were  it  otherwise  convenient,  to 
know  his  Biography:"  nevertheless,  could  an  enlight- 
ened curiosity  be  so  far  gratified,  it  must  be  owned  the 

10  Biography  of  most  ought  to  be,  in  an  extreme  degree, 
summary.  In  this  world  there  is  so  wonderfully  little 
self-subsistence  among  men;  next  to  no  originality 
(though  never  absolutely  none):  one  Life  is  too  servilely 
the  copy  of  another;  and  so  in  whole  thousands  of  them 

15  you  find  little  that  is  properly  new;  nothing  but  the  old 
song  sung  by  a  new  voice,  with  better  or  worse  execu- 
tion, here  and  there  an  ornamental  quaver,  and  false 
notes  enough:  but  the  fundamental  tune  is  ever  the  same; 
and  for  the  words,  these,  all  that  they  meant  stands 

20  written  generally  on  the  Churchyard-stone:  Natus  sum; 
esuriebam,  qucerebam;  nunc  repletns  requiesco.  Mankind 
sail  their  Life-voyage  in  huge  fleets,  following  some  single 
whale-fishing  or  herring-fishing  Commodore:  the  log- 
book of  each  differs  not,  in  essential  purport,  from  that 

25  of  any  other;  nay  the  most  have  no  legible  log-book 
(reflection,  observation  not  being  among  their  talents); 
keep  no  reckoning,  only  keep  in  sight  of  the  flagship, — 
and  fish.  Read  the  Commodore's  Papers  (know  his 
Life);  and  even  your  lover  of  that  street  Biography  will 

30  have  learned  the  most  of  what  he  sought  after. 


BOSWELI/S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  93 

Or,  the  servile  imitancy,  and  yet  also  a  nobler  rela- 
tionship and  mysterious  union  to  one  another  which 
lies  in  such  imitancy,  of  Mankind  might  be  illustrated 
under  the  different  figure  (itself  nowise  original)  of  a 
Flock  of  Sheep.  Sheep  go  in  flocks  for  three  reasons:  5 
First,  because  they  are  of  a  gregarious  temper,  and  love 
to  be  together:  Secondly,  because  of  their  cowardice; 
they  are  afraid  to  be  left  alone:  Thirdly,  because  the 
common  run  of  them  are  dull  of  sight,  to  a  proverb,  and 
can  have  no  choice  in  roads;  sheep  can  in  fact  see  nothing;  10 
in  a  celestial  Luminary,  and  a  scoured  pewter  Tankard, 
would  discern  only  that  both  dazzled  them,  and  were  of 
unspeakable  glory.  How  like  their  fellow-creatures  of 
the  human  species!  Men,  too,  as  was  from  the  first 
maintained  here,  are  gregarious;  then  surely  faint-  15 
hearted  enough,  trembling  to  be  left  by  themselves; 
above  all,  dull-sighted,  down  to  the  verge  of  utter  blind- 
ness. Thus  are  we  seen  ever  running  in  torrents,  and 
mobs,  if  we  run  at  all;  and  after  what  foolish  scoured 
Tankards,  mistaking  them  for  suns!  Foolish  Turnip-  20 
lanterns  likewise,  to  all  appearance  supernatural,  keep 
whole  nations  quaking,  their  hair  on  end.  Neither 
know  we,  except  by  blind  habit,  where  the  good  pastures 
lie:  solely  when  the  sweet  grass  is  between  our  teeth,  we 
know  it,  and  chew  it;  also  when  grass  is  bitter  and  scant,  25 
we  know  it, — and  bleat  and  butt:  these  last  two  facts 
we  know  of  a  truth  and  in  very  deed. — Thus  do  Men 
and  Sheep  play  their  parts  on  this  Nether  Earth;  wander- 
ing restlessly  in  large  masses,  they  know  not  whither;  for 
most  part  each  following  his  neighbor,  and  his  own  nose.  30 


94  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

Nevertheless,  not  always;  look  better,  you  shall  find 
certain  that  do,  in  some  small  degree,  know  whither. 
Sheep  have  their  Bell-wether;  some  ram  of  the  folds,  en- 
dued with  more  valor,  with  clearer  vision  than  other 
5  sheep;  he  leads  them  through  the  wolds,  by  height  and 
hollow,  to  the  woods  and  water-courses,  for  covert  or  for 
pleasant  provender;  courageously  marching,  and  if  need 
be,  leaping,  and  with  hoof  and  horn  doing  battle,  in  the 
van:  him  they  courageously,  and  with  assured  heart,  fol- 
io low.    Touching  it  is,  as  every  herdsman  will  inform  you, 
with  what  chivalrous  devotedness  these  woolly  Hosts  ad- 
here to  their  Wether;  and  rush  after  him,  through  good 
report  and  through  bad  report,  were  it  into  safe  shelters 
and  green  thymy  nooks,  or  into  asphaltic  lakes  and  the 
15  jaws  of  devouring  lions.    Ever  also  must  we  recall  that 
fact  which  we  owe  Jean  Paul's  quick  eye:  "If  you  hold  a 
stick  before  the  Wether,  so  that  he,  by  necessity,  leaps 
in  passing  you,  and  then  withdraw  your  stick,  the  Flock 
will  nevertheless  all  leap  as  he  did;  and  the  thousandth 
20  sheep  shall  be  found  impetuously  vaulting  over  air,  as 
the   first   did   over   an   otherwise   impassable   barrier." 
Reader,  wouldst  thou  understand  Society,  ponder  well 
those  ovine  proceedings;  thou  wilt  find  them  all  curiously 
significant. 
25      Now  if  sheep  always,  how  much  more  must  men  al- 
ways, have  their  Chief,  their  Guide!     Man  too  is  by 
nature  quite  thoroughly  gregarious:  nay,  ever  he  struggles 
to  be  something  more,  to  be  social;  not  even  when  So- 
ciety   has    become    impossible    does    that    deep-seated 
30  tendency  and  effort  forsake  him.    Man,  as  if  by  miracu- 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  95 

lous  magic,  imparts  his  Thoughts,  his  Mood  of  mind  to 
man;  an  unspeakable  communion  binds  all  past,  present, 
and  future  men  into  one  indissoluble  whole,  almost  into 
one  living  Individual.  Of  which  high,  mysterious  Truth, 
this  disposition  to  imitate,  to  lead  and  be  led,  this  im-  5 
possibility  not  to  imitate,  is  the  most  constant,  and  one 
of  the  simplest  manifestations.  To  "imitate!"  which  of 
us  all  can  measure  the  significance  that  lies  in  that  one 
word?  By  virtue  of  which  the  infant  Man,  born  at 
Woolsthorpe,  grows  up  not  to  be  a  hairy  Savage,  and  10 
chewer  of  Acorns,  but  an  Isaac  Newton  and  Discoverer  of 
Solar  Systems ! — Thus,  both  in  a  celestial  and  terrestrial 
sense,  are  we  a  Flock,  such  as  there  is  no  other:  nay, 
looking  away  from  the  base  and  ludicrous  to  the  sublime 
and  sacred  side  of  the  rratter  (since  in  every  matter  there  15 
are  two  sides),  have  not  we  also  a  Shepberd,  "  if  we  will 
but  hear  his  voice"?  Of  those  stupid  multitudes  there 
is  no  one  but  has  an  immortal  Soul  within  him;  a  reflex 
and  living  image  of  God's  whole  Universe:  strangely, 
from  its  dim  environment,  the  light  of  the  Highest  looks  20 
through  him; — for  which  reason,  indeed,  it  is  that  we 
claim  a  brotherhood  with  him,  and  so  love  to  know  his 
History,  and  come  into  clearer  and  clearer  union  with 
all  that  he  feels,  and  says,  and  does. 

However,  the  chief  thing  to  be  noted  was  this:  Amid  25 
those  dull  millions,  who,  as  a  dull  flock,  roll  hither  and 
thither,  whithersoever  they  are  led;  and  seem  all  sight- 
less and  slavish,  accomplishing,  attempting  little  save 
what  the  animal  instinct  in  its  somewhat  higher  kind 
might  teach,  To  keep  themselves  and  their  young  ones  30 


96  NINETEENTH   CENTURY    PROSE 

alive, — are  scattered  here  and  there  superior  natures, 
whose  eye  is  not  destitute  of  free  vision,  nor  their  heart 
of  free  volition.  These  latter,  therefore,  examine  and 
determine,  not  what  others  do,  but  what  it  is  right  to 
5  do;. towards  which  and  which  only,  will  they,  with  such 
force  as  is  given  them,  resolutely  endeavor:  for  if  the 
Machine,  living  or  inanimate,  is  merely  fed,  or  desires 
to  be  fed,  and  so  works;  the  Person  can  will,  and  so  do. 
These  are  properly  our  Men,  our  Great  Men;  the  guides 

10  of  the  dull  host, — which  follows  them  as  by  an  irrevo- 
cable decree.  They  are  the  chosen  of  the  world:  they 
had  this  rare  faculty  not  only  of  "supposing"  and  "in- 
clining to  think,"  but  of  knowing  and  believing;  the  na- 
ture of  their  being  was,  that  they  lived  not  by  Hearsay 

15  but  by  clear  Vision;  while  others  hovered  and  swam 
along,  in  the  grand  Vanity-fair  of  the  World,  blinded 
by  the  mere  "Shows  of  things,"  these  saw  into  the 
Things  themselves,  and  could  walk  as  men  having  an 
eternal  loadstar,  and  with  their  feet  on  sure  paths.    Thus 

20  was  there  a  Reality  in  their  existence;  something  of  a 
perennial  character;  in  virtue  of  which  indeed  it  is  that 
the  memory  of  them  is  perennial.  Whoso  belongs  only 
to. his  own  age,  and  reverences  only  its  gilt  Popinjays 
or  soot-smeared  Mumbojumbos,  must  needs  die  with  it: 

25  though  he  have  been  crowned  seven  times  in  the  Capitol, 
or  seventy  and  seven  times,  and  Rumor  have  blown  his 
praises  to  all  the  four  winds,  deafening  every  ear  there- 
with,— it  avails  not;  there  was  nothing  universal,  noth- 
ing eternal  in  him;  he  must  fade  away,  even  as  the 

30  Popinjay-gildings    and    Scarecrow-apparel,    which    he 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  97 

could  not  see  through.  The  great  man  does,  in  good 
truth,  belong  to  his  own  age;  nay  more  so  than  any 
other  man;  being  properly  the  synopsis  and  epitome  of 
such  age  with  its  interests  and  influences:  but  belongs 
likewise  to  all  ages,  otherwise  he  is  net  great.  What  5 
was  transitory  in  him  passes  away;  and  an  immortal 
part  remains,  the  significance  of  which  is  in  strict  speech 
inexhaustible, — as  that  of  every  real  object  is.  Aloft, 
conspicuous,  on  his  enduring  basis,  he  stands  there, 
serene,  unaltering;  silently  addresses  to  every  new  gen-  10 
eration  a  new  lesson  and  monition.  Well  is  his  Life 
worth  writing,  worth  interpreting;  and  ever,  in  the  new 
dialect  of  new  times,  of  re-writing  and  re-interpreting. 

Of  such  chosen  men  was  Samuel  Johnson:  not  rank- 
ing among  the  highest,  or  even  the  high,  yet  distinctly  15 
admitted  into  that  sacred  band;  whose  existence  was  no 
idle  Dream,  but  a  Reality  which  he  transacted  awake; 
nowise   a    Clothes-horse    and    Patent    Digester,    but    a 
genuine  Man.     By  nature  he  was  gifted  for  the  noblest 
of  earthly  tasks,  that  of  Priesthood,  and  Guidance  of  20 
mankind;  by  destiny,  moreover,  he  was  appointed  to 
this  task,  and  did  actually,  according  to  strength,  fulfill 
the  same:  so  that  always  the  question,  How;  in  what 
spirit;  under  what  shape?  remains  for  us  to  be  asked 
and   answered   concerning   him.      For   as   the    highest  25 
Gospel  was  a  Biography,  so  is  the  Life  of  every  good 
man  still  an  indubitable  Gospel,  and  preaches  to  the 
eye  and  heart  and  whole  man,  so  that  Devils  even  must 
believe  and  tremble,  these  gladdest  tidings:   "Man  is 
heaven-born;  not  the  thrall  of  Circumstances,  of  Ne-  3° 
Prose — 7 


98  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

cessity,  but  the  victorious  subduer  thereof:  behold  how 
he  can  become  the  'Announcer  of  himself  and  of  his 
Freedom;'  and  is  ever  what  the  Thinker  has  named  him, 
'the  Messias  of  Nature!'  " — Yes,  Reader,  all  this  that 
5  thou  hast  so  often  heard  about  "force  of  circumstances," 
"the  creature  of  the  time,"  "balancing  of  motives,"  and 
who  knows  what  melancholy  stuff  to  the  like  purport, 
wherein  thou,  as  in  a  nightmare  Dream,  sittest  para- 
lyzed, and  hast  no  force  left, — was  in  very   truth,   if 

10  Johnson  and  waking  men  are  to  be  credited,  little  other 

than  a  hag-ridden  vision  of  death-sleep;  some  half-fact, 

more  fatal  at  times  than  a  whole  falsehood.     Shake  it 

off;  awake;  up  and  be  doing,  even  as  it  is  given  thee! 

The  Contradiction  which  yawns  wide  enough  in  every 

15  Life,  which  it  is  the  meaning  and  task  of  Life  to  recon- 
cile, was  in  Johnson's  wider  than  in  most.  Seldom,  for 
any  man,  has  the  contrast  between  the  ethereal  heaven- 
ward side  of  things,  and  the  dark  sordid  earthward,  been 
more  glaring:  whether  we  look  at  Nature's  work  with  him 

20  or  Fortune's,  from  first  to  last,  heterogeneity,  as  of  sun- 
beams and  miry  clay,  is  on  all  hands  manifest.  Whereby 
indeed,  only  this  was  declared,  That  much  Life  had  been 
given  him;  many  things  to  triumph  over,  a  great  work  to 
do.    Happily  also  he  did  it;  better  than  the  most. 

25  Nature  had  given  him  a  high,  keen-visioned,  almost 
poetic  soul;  yet  writhal  imprisoned  it  in  an  inert,  un- 
sightly body:  he  that  could  never  rest  had  not  limbs 
that  would  move  with  him,  but  only  roll  and  waddle: 
the    inward    eye,    all-penetrating,    all-embracing,    must 

30  look    through    bodily    windows    that    were   dim,    half- 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF   JOHNSON  99 

blinded;  he  so  loved  men,  and  "  never  once  saw  the  human 
face  divine!"  Not  less  did  he  prize  the  love  of  men; 
he  was  eminently  social;  the  approbation  of  his  fellows 
was  dear  to  him,  "valuable,"  as  he  owned,  "if  from  the 
meanest  of  human  beings:"  yet  the  first  impression  he  5 
produced  on  every  man  was  to  be  one  of  aversion,  almost 
of  disgust.  By  Nature  it  was  further  ordered  that  the 
imperious  Johnson  should  be  born  poor:  the  ruler-soul, 
strong  in  its  native  royalty,  generous,  uncontrollable, 
like  the  lion  of  the  woods,  was  to  be  housed,  then,  in  such  10 
a  dwelling-place:  of  Disfigurement,  Disease,  and,  lastly, 
of  a  Poverty  which  itself  made  him  the  servant  of  serv- 
ants. Thus  was  the  born  King  likewise  a  born  Slave: 
the  divine  spirit  of  Music  must  awake  imprisoned  amid 
dull-croaking  universal  Discords;  the  Ariel  finds  himself  15 
incased  in  the  coarse  hulls  of  a  Caliban.  So  is  it  more 
or  less,  we  know  (and  thou,  O  Reader,  knowest  and 
feelest  even  now),  with  all  men:  yet  with  the  fewest  men 
in  any  such  degree  as  with  Johnson. 

Fortune,  moreover,  which  had  so  managed  his  first  20 
appearance  in  the  world,  lets  not  her  hand  lie  idle,  or 
turn  the  other  way,  but  works  unweariedly  in  the  same 
spirit,  while  he  is  journeying  through  the  world.  What 
such  a  mind,  stamped  of  Nature's  noblest  metal,  though 
in  so  ungainly  a  die,  was  specially  and  best  of  all  fitted  25 
for,  might  still  be  a  question.  To  none  of  the  world's 
few  Incorporated  Guilds  could  he  have  adjusted  himself 
without  difficulty,  without  distortion;  in  none  been  a 
Guild-Brother  well  at  ease.  Perhaps,  if  we  look  to  the 
strictly  practical  nature  of  his  faculty,  to  the  strength,  30 


IOO  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

decision,  method  that  manifests  itself  in  him,  we  may 
say  that  his  calling  was  rather  towards  Active  than  Specu- 
lative life;  that  as  Statesman  (in  the  higher,  now  obsolete 
sense),  Lawgiver,  Ruler;  in  short,  as  Doer  of  the  Work, 
5  he  had  shone  even  more  than  as  Speaker  of  the  Word. 
His  honesty  of  heart,  his  courageous  temper,  the  value 
he  set  on  things  outward  and  material,  might  have  made 
him  a  King  among  Kings.  Had  the  golden  age  of  those 
new  French  Prophets,  when  it  shall  be:  A  chaciin  selon 

10  sa  capacite;  a  chaque  capacite  selon  ses  azuvres,  but  ar- 
rived! Indeed,  even  in  our  brazen  and  Birmingham- 
lacker  age,  he  himself  regretted  that  he  had  not  become 
a  Lawyer,  and  risen  to  be  Chancellor,  which  he  might 
well  have  done.     However,  it  was  otherwise  appointed. 

15  To  no  man  does  Fortune  throw  open  all  the  kingdoms 
of  this  world,  and  say:  It  is  thine;  choose  where  thou  wilt 
dwell !  To  the  most  she  opens  hardly  the  smallest  cranny 
or  doghutch,  and  says,  not  without  asperity:  There,  that 
is  thine  while  thou  canst  keep  it;  nestle  thyself  there,  and 

20  bless  Heaven!  Alas,  men  must  fit  themselves  into  many 
things:  some  forty  years  ago,  for  instance,  the  noblest 
and  ablest  Man  in  all  the  British  lands  might  be  seen 
not  swaying  the  royal  scepter,  or  the  pontiff's  censer, 
on  the  pinnacle  of  the  World,  but  gauging  ale-tubs  in  the 

25  little  burgh  of  Dumfries!  Johnson  came  a  little  nearer 
the  mark  than  Burns:  but  with  him  too  "Strength  was 
mournfully  denied  its  arena;"  he  too  had  to  fight  For- 
tune at  strange  odds,  all  his  life  long. 

Johnson's  disposition  for  royally  (had  the  Fates  so 

30  ordered  it)  is  well  seen  in  early  boyhood.     "His  fa- 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  lOI 

vorites,"  says  Boswell,  "used  to  receive  very  liberal 
assistance  from  him;  and  such  was  the  submission  and 
deference  with  which  he  was  treated,  that  three  of  the 
boys,  of  whom  Mr.  Hector  was  sometimes  one,  used  to 
come  in  the  morning  as  his  humble  attendants,  and  carry  5 
him  to  school.  One  in  the  middle  stooped,  while  he  sat 
upon  his  back;  and  one  on  each  side  supported  him; 
and  thus  was  he  borne  triumphant."  The  purfly,  sand- 
blind  lubber  and  blubber,  with  his  open  mouth,  and  face 
of  bruised  honeycomb;  yet  already  dominant,  imperial,  n 
irresistible!  Not  in  the  "  King's-chair  "  (of  human  arms) 
as  we  see,  do  his  three  satellites  carry  him  along:  rather 
on  the  Tyrant's-saddle,  the  back  of  his  fellow-creature, 
must  he  ride  prosperous! — The  child  is  father  of  the 
man.  He  who  had  seen  fifty  years  into  coming  Time,  15 
would  have  felt  that  little  spectacle  of  mischievous  school- 
boys to  be  a  great  one.  For  us,  who  look  back  on  it, 
and  what  followed  it,  now  from  afar,  there  arise  ques- 
tions enough:  How  looked  these  urchins?  What  jackets 
and  galligaskins  had  they;  felt  headgear,  or  of  dogskin  20 
leather?  What  was  old  Lichfield  doing  then;  what 
thinking? — and  so  on,  through  the  whole  series  of  Cor- 
poral Trim's  "auxiliary  verbs."  A  picture  of  it  all 
fashions  itself  together; — only  unhappily  we  have  no 
brush  and  no  fingers.  25 

Boyhood  is  now  past;  the  ferula  of  Pedagogue  waves 
harmless,  in  the  distance:  Samuel  has  struggled  up  to 
uncouth  bulk  and  youthhood,  wrestling  with  Disease 
and  Poverty,  all  the  way;  which  two  continue  still  his 
companions.    At  College  we  see  little  of  him;  yet  thus  30 


JOJ  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

much,  that  things  went  not  well.  A  rugged  wild-man  of 
the  desert,  awakened  to  the  feeling  of  himself;  proud  as 
the  proudest,  poor  as  the  poorest;  stoically  shut  up, 
silently  enduring  the  incurable:  what  a  world  of  blackest 
5  gloom,  with  sun-gleams  and  pale  tearful  moon-gleams, 
and  flickerings  of  a  celestial  and  an  infernal  splendor, 
was  this  that  now  opened  for  him!  But  the  weather  is 
wintry;  and  the  toes  of  the  man  are  looking  through  his 
shoes.  His  muddy  features  grow  of  a  purple  and  sea- 
10  green  color;  a  flood  of  black  indignation  mantling  be- 
neath. A  truculent,  raw-boned  figure!  Meat  he  has 
probably  little;  hope  he  has  less:  his  feet,  as  we  said, 
have  come  into  brotherhood  with  the  cold  mire. 

"  Shall    I    be  particular,"   inquires   Sir    John   Hawkins,   "  and 
1 5  relate  a  circumstance  of  his  distress,  that  cannot  be  imputed  to 
him  as  an  effect  of  his  own  extravagance  or  irregularity,  and  con- 
sequently reflects  no  disgrace  on  his  memory  ?     He  had  scarce 
any  change  of  raiment,  and,  in  a  short  time  after  Corbet  left  him, 
but  one  pair  of  shoes,  and  those  so  old  that  his  feet  were  seen 
20  through  them :  a  gentleman  of  his  college,  the  father  of  an  emi- 
nent clergyman  now  living,  directed  a  servitor  one   morning  to 
place  a  new  pair  at  the  door  of  Johnson's  chamber;  who  seeing 
them  upon  his  first  going  out,  so  far  forgot  himself  and  the  spirit 
which  must  have  actuated  his  unknown  benefactor,  that,  with  all 
25  the  indignation  of  an  insulted  man,  he  threw  them  away." 

How  exceedingly  surprising! — The  Rev.  Dr.  Hall  re- 
marks: "As  far  as  we  can  judge  from  a  cursory  view  of 
the  weekly  account  in  the  buttery-books,  Johnson  ap- 
pears to  have  lived  as  well  as  other  commoners  and 
30  scholars."  Alas!  such  "cursory  view  of  the  buttery 
books,"  now  from  the  safe  distance  of  a  century,  in  the 


BOSWELL  S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  103 

safe  chair  of  a  College  Mastership,  is  one  thing;  the  con- 
tinual view  of  the  empty  (or  locked)  buttery  itself  was 
quite  a  different  thing.  But  hear  our  Knight,  how  he 
farther  discourses.  "Johnson,"  quoth  Sir  John,  "could 
not  at  this  early  period  of  his  life  divest  himself  of  an  5 
idea  that  poverty  was  disgraceful;  and  was  very  severe 
in  his  censures  of  that  economy  in  both  our  Universities, 
which  exacted  at  meals  the  attendance  of  poor  scholars, 
under  the  several  denominations  of  Servitors  in  the  one, 
and  Sizers  in  the  other:  he  thought  that  the  scholar's,  10 
like  the  Christian  life,  leveled  all  distinctions  of  rank 
and  worldly  preeminence;  but  in  this  he  was  mistaken: 
civil  polity,"  &c,  &c. — Too  true!  It  is  man's  lot  to  err. 
However,  Destiny,  in  all  ways,  means  to  prove  the 
mistaken  Samuel,  and  see  what  stuff  is  in  him.  He  must  15 
leave  these  butteries  of  Oxford,  Want  like  an  armed 
man  compelling  him;  retreat  into  his  father's  mean  home; 
and  there  abandon  himself  for  a  season  to  inaction,  dis- 
appointment, shame,  and  nervous  melancholy  nigh  run 
mad:  he  is  probably  the  wretchedest  man  in  wide  Eng-  20 
land.  In  all  ways,  he  too  must  "  become  perfect  through 
suffering." — High  thoughts  have  visited  him;  his  College 
Exercises  have  been  praised  beyond  the  walls  of  College; 
Pope  himself  has  seen  that  Translation,  and  approved 
of  it:  Samuel  had  whispered  to  himself:  I  too  am  "one  25 
and  somewhat."  False  thoughts;  that  leave  only  misery 
behind!  The  fever-fire  of  Ambition  is  too  painfully 
extinguished  (but  not  cured)  in  the  frost-bath  of  Poverty. 
Johnson  has  knocked  at  the  gate,  as  one  having  a  right; 
but  there  was  no  opening:  the  world  lies  all  encircled  as  30 


104  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

with  brass;  nowhere  can  he  find  or  force  the  smallest 
entrance.  An  ushership  at  Market  Bosworth,  and  "a 
disagreement  between  him  and  Sir  Wolstan  Dixie,  the 
patron  of  the  school,"  yields  him  bread  of  affliction  and 
5  water  of  affliction;  but  so  bitter,  that  unassisted  human 
nature  cannot  swallow  them.  Young  Samson  will  grind 
no  more  in  the  Philistine  mill  of  Bosworth;  quits  hold 
of  Sir  Wolstan,  and  the  "domestic  chaplaincy,  so  far 
at  least  as  to  say  grace  at  table,"  and  also  to  be  "treated 

io  with  what  he  represented  as  intolerable  harshness;"  and 
so,  after  "some  months  of  such  complicated  misery," 
feeling  doubtless  that  there  are  worse  things  in  the  world 
than  quick  death  by  Famine,  "relinquishes  a  situation, 
which  all   his  life   afterwards   he   recollected  with  the 

15  strongest  aversion,  and  even  horror."  Men  like  Johnson 
are  properly  called  the  Forlorn  Hope  of  the  world:  judge 
whether  his  hope  was  forlorn  or  not,  by  this  Letter  to  a 
dull  oily  Printer  who  called  himself  Sylvanus  Urban: 

"  Sir, — As  you  appear  no  less  sensible  than  your  readers  of  the 
20  defect  of  your  poetical  article,  you  will  not  be  displeased  if  (in 
order  to  the  improvement  of  it)  I  communicate  to  you  the  senti- 
ments of  a  person  who  will  undertake,  on  reasonable  terms,  some- 
times to  fill  a  column. 

"  His  opinion  is,  that  the  public  would,"  &c.  &c. 
25  "  If  such  a  correspondence  will  be  agreeable  to  you,  be  pleased 
to  inform  me  in  two  posts  what  the  conditions  are  on  which  you 
shall  expect  it.  Your  late  offer  (for  a  Prize  Poem)  gives  me  no 
reason  to  distrust  your  generosity.  If  you  engage  in  any  literary 
projects  besides  this  paper,  I  have  other  designs  to  impart." 

30  Reader,  the  generous  person,  to  whom  this  Letter  goes 
addressed,  is  "Mr.  Edmund  Cave,  at  St.  John's  Gate, 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  105 

London;"  the  addresser  of  it  is  Samuel  Johnson,  in 
Birmingham,  Warwickshire. 

Nevertheless,  Life  rallies  in  the  man;  reasserts  its 
right  to  be  lived,  even  to  be  enjoyed.  "Better  a  small 
bush,"  say  the  Scotch,  "  than  no  shelter:"  Johnson  learns  5 
to  be  contented  with  humble  human  things;  and  is  there 
not  already  an  actual  realized  human  Existence,  all 
stirring  and  living  on  every  hand  of  him?  Go  thou  and 
do  likewise!  In  Birmingham  itself,  with  his  own  pur- 
chased goose-quill,  he  can  earn  "five  pounds;"  nay,  10 
finally,  the  choicest  terrestrial  good:  a  Friend,  who  will 
be  Wife  to  him!  Johnson's  marriage  with  the  good 
Widow  Porter  has  been  treated  with  ridicule  by  many 
mortals,  who  apparently  had  no  understanding  thereof. 
That  the  purblind,  seamy-faced  Wild-man,  stalking  15 
lonely,  woe-stricken,  like  some  Irish  Gallowglass  with 
peeled  club,  whose  speech  no  man  knew,  whose  look  all 
men  both  laughed  at  and  shuddered  at,  should  find  any 
brave  female  heart  to  acknowledge,  at  first  sight  and 
hearing  of  him,  "This  is  the  most  sensible  man  I  ever  20 
met  with;"  and  then,  with  generous  courage,  to  take 
him  to  itself,  and  say,  Be  thou  mine;  be  thou  warmed 
here,  and  thawed  to  life! — in  all  this,  in  the  kind  Widow's 
love  and  pity  for  him,  in  Johnson's  love  and  gratitude, 
there  is  actually  no  matter  for  ridicule.  Their  wedded  25 
life,  as  is  the  common  lot,  was  made  up  cf  drizzle  and 
dry  weather;  but  innocence  and  worth  dwelt  in  it;  and 
when  death  had  ended  it,  a  certain  sacredness:  John- 
son's deathless  affection  for  his  Tetty  was  always  ven- 
erable and  noble.     However,  be  all  this  as  it  might,  30 


106  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

Johnson  is  now  minded  to  wed;  and  will  live  by  the  trade 
of  Pedagogy,  for  by  this  also  may  life  be  kept  in.  Let 
the  world  therefore  take  notice:  "At  Edial  near  Lich- 
field, in  Staffordshire,  young  gentlemen  are  boarded,  and 
5  taught  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  by  Samuel  John- 
son." Had  this  Edial  enterprise  prospered,  how  dif- 
ferent might  the  issue  have  been!  Johnson  had  lived 
a  life  of  unnoticed  nobleness,  or  swoln  into  some  amor- 
phous Dr.  Parr,  of  no  avail  to  us;  Bozzy  would  have 

10  dwindled  into  official  insignificance,  or  risen  by  some 
other  elevation;  old  Auchinleck  had  never  been  afflicted 
with  "ane  that  keeped  a  schule,"  or  obliged  to  violate 
hospitality  by  a:  "  Cromwell  do?  God,  sir,  he  gart  kings 
ken  that  there  was  a  lith  in  their  neck!"    But  the  Edial 

15  enterprise  did  not  prosper;  Destiny  had  other  work 
appointed  for  Samuel  Johnson;  and  young  gentlemen 
got  board  where  they  could  elsewhere  find  it.  This 
man  was  to  become  a  Teacher  of  grown  gentlemen,  in 
the  most  surprising  way;  a  Man  of  Letters,  and  Ruler 

20  of  the  British  Nation  for  some  time, — not  of  their 
bodies  merely,  but  of  their  minds,  not  over  them,  but  in 
them. 

The  career  of  Literature  could  not,  in  Johnson's  day, 
any  more  than  now,  be  said  to  lie  along  the  shores  of  a 
25  Pactolus:  whatever  else  might  be  gathered  there,  gold- 
dust  was  nowise  the  chief  produce.  The  world,  from 
the  times  of  Socrates,  St.  Paul,  and  far  earlier,  has  always 
had  its  teachers;  and  always  treated  them  in  a  peculiar 
way.     A  shrewd  Townclerk  (not  of  Ephesus),  once,  in 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  107 

founding  a  Burgh-Seminary,  when  the  question  came, 
How  the  Schoolmasters  should  be  maintained?  delivered 
this  brief  counsel:  "  D — n  them,  keep  them  poor!"  Con- 
siderable wisdom  may  lie  in  this  aphorism.  At  all  events, 
we  see,  the  world  has  acted  on  it  long,  and  indeed  im-  5 
proved  on  it, — putting  many  a  Schoolmaster  of  its  great 
Burgh-Seminary  to  a  death,  which  even  cost  it  something. 
The  world,  it  is  true,  had  for  some  time  been  too  busy 
to  go  out  of  its  way,  and  put  any  Author  to  death;  how- 
ever, the  old  sentence  pronounced  against  them  was  10 
found  to  be  pretty  sufficient.  The  first  Writers  (being 
Monks)  were  sworn  to  a  vow  of  Poverty;  the  modern 
Authors  had  no  need  to  swear  to  it.  This  was  the  epoch 
when  an  Otway  could  still  die  of  hunger;  not  to  speak 
of  your  innumerable  Scrogginses,  whom  "the  Muse  15 
found  stretched  beneath  a  rug,"  with  "rusty  grate  un- 
conscious of  a  fire,"  stocking-nightcap,  sanded  floor, 
and  all  the  other  escutcheons  of  the  craft,  time  out  of 
mind  the  heirlooms  of  Authorship.  Scroggins,  however, 
seems  to  have  been  but  an  idler;  not  at  all  so  diligent  as  20 
worthy  Mr.  Boyce,  whom  we  might  have  seen  sitting 
up  in  bed,  with  his  wearing-apparel  of  Blanket  about  him, 
and  a  hole  slit  in  the  same,  that  his  hand  might  be  at 
liberty  to  work  in  its  vocation.  The  worst  was,  that  too 
frequently  a  blackguard  recklessness  of  temper  ensued,  25 
incapable  of  turning  to  account  what  good  the  gods  even 
here  had  provided:  your  Boyces  acted  on  some  stoico- 
epicurean  principle  of  carpe  diem,  as  men  do  in  bom- 
barded towns,  and  seasons  of  raging  pestilence; — and  so 
had  lost  not  only  their  life  and  presence  of  mind,  but  30 


108  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

their  status  as  persons  of  respectability.  The  trade  of 
Author  was  at  about  one  of  its  lowest  ebbs  when  John- 
son embarked  on  it. 

Accordingly  we  find  no  mention  of  Illuminations  in 
5  the  city  of  London  when  this  same  Ruler  of  the  British 
nation  arrived  in  it:  no  cannon-salvos  are  fired;  no 
flourish  of  drums  and  trumpets  greets  his  appearance  on 
the  scene.  He  enters  quite  quietly,  with  some  copper 
halfpence  in  his  pocket;  creeps  into  lodgings  in  Exeter 
io  Street,  Strand;  and  has  a  Coronation  Pontiff  also,  of 
not  less  peculiar  equipment,  whom,  with  all  submissive- 
ness,  he  must  wait  upon,  in  his  Vatican  of  St.  John's 
Gate.    This  is  the  dull  oily  Printer  alluded  to  above. 

"  Cave's  temper,"  says  our  Knight  Hawkins,  "  was  phlegmatic: 

15  though  he  assumed,  as  the  publisher  of  the  Magazine,  the  name 
of  Sylvanus  Urban,  he  had  few  of  those  qualities  that  constitute 
urbanity.     Judge  of  his  want  of  them  by  this  question,  which  he 

once  put  to  an  author:  '  Mr. ,  I  hear  you  have  just  published 

a  pamphlet,  and  am  told  there  is  a  very  good  paragraph  in  it,  upon 

20  the  subject  of  music  :  did  you  write  that  yourself? '  His  discern- 
ment was  also  slow ;  and  as  he  had  already  at  his  command  some 
writers  of  prose  and  verse,  who,  in  the  language  of  Booksellers, 
are  called  good  hands,  he  was  the  backwarder  in  making  advances, 
or  courting  an  intimacy  with  Johnson.     Upon  the  first  approach 

25  of  a  stranger,  his  practice  was  to  continue  sitting;  a  posture  in 
which  he  was  ever  to  be  found,  and  for  a  few  minutes  to  continue 
silent :  if  at  any  time  he  was  inclined  to  begin  the  discourse,  it 
was  generally  by  putting  a  leaf  of  the  Magazine,  then  in  the  press, 
into  the  hand  of  his  visitor,  and  asking  his  opinion  of  it.     .     .     . 

30  "He  was  so  incompetent  a  judge  of  Johnson's  abilities,  that 
meaning  at  one  time  to  dazzle  him  with  the  splendor  of  some  of 
those  luminaries  in  Literature,  who  favored  him  with  their  corre- 
spondence, he  told  him  that  if  he  would,  in  the  evening,  be  at  a 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF   JOHNSON  109 

certain  alehouse  in  the  neighborhood  of  Clerkenwell,  he  might 
have  a  chance  of  seeing  Mr.  Browne  and  another  or  two  of  those 
illustrious  contributors :  Johnson  accepted  the  invitation ;  and 
being  introduced  by  Cave,  dressed  in  a  loose  horseman's  coat,  and 
such  a  great  bushy  wig  as  he  constantly  wore,  to  the  sight  of  Mr.  5 
Browne,  whom  he  found  sitting  at  the  upper  end  of  a  long  table, 
in  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke,  had  his  curiosity  gratified." — Haw- 
kins, 46-50. 

In  fact,  if  we  look  seriously  into  the  condition  of  Au- 
thorship at  that  period,  we  shall  find  that  Johnson  had  10 
undertaken  one  of  the  ruggedest  of  all  possible  enter- 
prises; that  here  as  elsewhere  Fortune  had  given  him 
unspeakable  Contradictions  to  reconcile.    For  a  man  of 
Johnson's  stamp,  the  Problem  was  twofold:  First,  not 
only  as  the  humble  but  indispensable  condition  of  all  15 
else,  to  keep  himself,  if  so  might  be,  alive;  but  secondly, 
to  keep  himself  alive  by  speaking  forth  the  Truth  that 
was  in  him,  and  speakng  it  truly,  that  is,  in  the  clearest 
and  fittest  utterance  the  Heavens  had  enabled  him  to 
give  it,  let  the  Earth  say  to  this  what  she  liked.    Of  which  20 
twofold  Problem  if  it  be  hard  to  solve  either  member 
separately,  how  incalculably  more  so  to  solve  it,  when 
both  are  conjoined,  and  work  with  endless  complication 
into  one  another!     He  that  finds  himself  already  kept 
alive  can  sometimes   (unhappily  not  always)   speak  a  25 
little  truth;  he  that  finds  himself  able  and  willing,  to 
all  lengths,  to  speak  lies,  may,  by  watching  how  the  wind 
sits,   scrape  together  a  livelihood,   sometimes  of  great 
splendor:  he,  again,  who  finds  himself  provided  with 
neither  endowment,  has  but  a  ticklish  game  to  play,  and  30 
shall  have  praises  if  he  win  it.    Let  us  look  a  little  at  both 


IIO  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

faces  of  the  matter;  and  see  what  front  they  then  offered 
our  Adventurer,  what  front  he  offered  them. 

At  the  time  of  Johnson's  appearance  on  the  field, 
Literature,  in  many  senses,  was  in  a  transitional  state; 
5  chiefly  in  this  sense,  as  respects  the  pecuniary  subsistence 
of  its  cultivators.  It  was  in  the  very  act  of  passing  from 
the  protection  of  patrons  into  that  of  the  Public;  no 
longer  to  supply  its  necessities  by  laudatory  Dedications 
to  the  Great,  but  by  judicious  Bargains  with  the  Book- 

10  sellers.  This  happy  change  has  been  much  sung  and 
celebrated;  many  a  "lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle 
eye"  looking  back  with  scorn  enough  on  the  bygone 
system  of  Dependency:  so  that  now  it  were  perhaps  well 
to  consider,  for  a  moment,  what  good  might  also  be  in 

15  it,  what  gratitude  we  owe  it.  That  a  good  was  in  it, 
admits  not  of  doubt.  Whatsoever  has  existed  has  had 
its  value:  without  some  truth  and  worth  lying  in  it,  the 
thing  could  not  have  hung  together,  and  been  the  organ 
and   sustenance   and   method   of   action   for   men   that 

20  reasoned  and  were  alive.  Translate  a  Falsehood  which 
is  wholly  false  into  Practice,  the  result  comes  out  zero; 
there  is  no  fruit  or  issue  to  be  derived  from  it.  That  in 
an  age,  when  a  Nobleman  was  still  noble,  still  with  his 
wealth  the  protector  of  worthy  and  humane  things,  and 

25  still  venerated  as  such,  a  poor  Man  of  Genius,  his  brother 
in  nobleness,  should,  with  unfeigned  reverence,  address 
him  and  say:  "I  have  found  Wisdom  here,  and  would 
fain  proclaim  it  abroad;  wilt  thou,  of  thy  abundance, 
afford  me  the  means?" — in  all  this  there  was  no  base- 

30  ness;  it  was  wholly  an  honest  proposal,  which  a  free 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  III 

man  might  make,  and  a  free  man  listen  to.  So  might 
a  Tasso,  with  a  Gerusalemme  in  his  hand  or  in  his  head, 
speak  to  a  Duke  of  Ferrara;  so  might  a  Shakespeare  to  his 
Southampton;  and  Continental  Artists  generally  to  their 
rich  Protectors, — in  some  countries,  down  almost  to  these  5 
days.  It  was  only  when  the  reverence  became  feigned, 
that  baseness  entered  into  the  transaction  on  both  sides; 
and,  indeed,  flourished  there  with  rapid  luxuriance,  till 
that  became  disgraceful  for  a  Dryden  which  a  Shake- 
speare could  once  practice  without  offense.  10 

Neither,  it  is  very  true,  was  the  new  way  of  Book- 
seller Maxenasship  worthless;  which  opened  itself  at 
this  juncture,  for  the  most  important  of  all  transport- 
trades,  now  when  the  old  way  had  become  too  miry  and 
impossible.  Remark,  moreover,  how  this  second  sort  15 
of  Maecenasship,  after  carrying  us  through  nearly  a 
century  of  Literary  Time,  appears  now  to  have  well- 
nigh  discharged  its  function  also;  and  to  be  working 
pretty  rapidly  toward  some  third  method,  the  exact  con- 
ditions of  which  are  yet  nowise  visible.  Thus  all  things  20 
have  their  end,  and  we  should  part  with  them  all,  not 
in  anger,  but  in  peace.  The  Bookseller  System,  during 
its  peculiar  century,  the  whole  of  the  eighteenth,  did  carry 
us  handsomely  along;  and  many  good  Works  it  has  left 
us,  and  many  good  Men  it  maintained:  if  it  is  now  ex-  25 
piring  by  Puffery,  as  the  Patronage  System  did  by 
Flattery  (for  Lying  is  ever  the  forerunner  of  Death, 
nay,  is  itself  Death),  let  us  not  forget  its  benefits;  how  it 
nursed  Literature  through  boyhood  and  school-years,  as 
Patronage  had  wrapped  it  in  soft  swaddling-bands; — till  3° 


112  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

now  we  see  it  about  to  put  on  the  toga  virilis,  could  it 
but  find  any  such! 

There  is  tolerable  traveling  on  the  beaten  road,  run 
how  it  may;  only  on  the  new  road  not  yet  leveled  and 

5  paved,  and  on  the  old  road  all  broken  into  ruts  and 
quagmires,  is  the  traveling  bad  or  impracticable.  The 
difficulty  lies  always  in  the  transition  from  one  method 
to  another.  In  which  state  it  was  that  Johnson  now 
found  Literature;  and  out  of  which,  let  us  also  say,  he 

10  manfully  carried  it.  What  remarkable  mortal  first  paid 
copyright  in  England  we  have  not  ascertained;  perhaps, 
for  almost  a  century  before,  some  scarce  visible  or 
ponderable  pittance  of  wages  had  occasionally  been 
yielded  by  the  Seller  of  books  to  the  Writer  of  them: 

15  the  original  Covenant,  stipulating  to  produce  Paradise 
Lost  on  the  one  hand,  and  Five  Pounds  Sterling  on  the 
other,  still  lies  (we  have  been  told)  in  black-on-white, 
for  inspection  and  purchase  by  the  curious,  at  a  Book- 
shop in  Chancery  Lane.    Thus  had  the  matter  gone  on, 

20  in  a  mixed  confused  way,  for  some  threescore  years;— 
as  ever,  in  such  things,  the  old  system  overlaps  the  new, 
by  some  generation  or  two,  and  only  dies  quite  out  when 
the  new  has  got  a  complete  organization  and  weather- 
worthy  surface  of  its  own.     Among  the  first  Authors, 

25  the  very  first  of  any  significance,  who  lived  by  the  day's 
wages  of  his  craft,  and  composedly  faced  the  world  on 
that  basis,  was  Samuel  Johnson. 

At  the  time  of  Johnson's  appearance  there  were  still 
two  ways  on  which  an  Author  might  attempt  proceed- 

30  ing:  there  were  the  Maecenases  proper  in  the  West  End 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  113 

of  London;  and  the  Maecenases  virtual  of  St.  John's 
Gate  and  Paternoster  Row.  To  a  considerate  man  it 
might  seem  uncertain  which  method  were  the  preferable: 
neither  had  very  high  attractions;  the  Patron's  aid  was 
now  well-nigh  necessarily  polluted  by  sycophancy,  before  5 
it  could  come  to  hand:  the  Bookseller's  was  deformed 
with  greedy  stupidity,  not  to  say  entire  wooden-headed- 
ness  and  disgust  (so  that  an  Osborne  even  required  to  be 
knocked  down  by  an  Author  of  spirit),  and  could  barely 
keep  the  thread  of  life  together.  The  one  was  the  wages  10 
of  suffering  and  poverty;  the  other,  unless  you  gave 
strict  heed  to  it,  the  wages  of  sin.  In  time,  Johnson  had 
opportunity  of  looking  into  both  methods,  and  ascertain- 
ing what  they  were;  but  found,  at  first  trial,  that  the 
former  would  in  nowise  do  for  him.  Listen,  once  again,  15 
to  that  far-famed  Blast  of  Doom,  proclaiming  into  the 
ear  of  Lord  Chesterfield,  and,  through  him,  of  the  listen- 
ing world,  that  Patronage  should  be  no  more! 

"  Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  past,  since  I  waited  in  your 
outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door ;  during  which  20 
time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  Work  l  through  difficulties,  of 
which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at  last  to  the 
verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,2  one  word  of 
encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor. 

1  The  English  Dictionary.  25 

2  Were  time  and  printer's  space  of  no  value,  it  were  easy  to 
wash  away  certain  foolish  soot-stains  dropped  here  as  "  Notes  ;  " 
especially  two  :  the  one  on  this  word  and  on  Boswell's  Note  to  it ; 
the  other  on  the  paragraph  which  follows.  Let  "  Ed."  look  a 
second  time ;  he  will  find  that  Johnson's  sacred  regard  for  Truth  30 
is  the  only  thing  to  be  "  noted  "  in  the  former  case ;  also,  in  the 

Prose— 8 


114  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

"  The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love,  and 
found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

"  Is  not  a  patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a 
man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and  when  he  has  reached 
5  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have 
been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been 
kind;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent  and  cannot 
enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary  and  cannot  impart  it ;  till  I  am  known 
and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to 
10  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be 
unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a 
patron  which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myseLf. 

"  Having  carried  on  my  Work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation 

to  any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  I 

15  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less  ;  for  I  have  long 

been  awakened  from  that  dream  of  hope  in  w7hich  I  once  boasted 

myself  with  so  much  exultation, 

"  My    Lord,   your    Lordship's    most    humble,  most    obedient 
servant, 

Sam.  Johnson." 

20  And  thus  must  the  rebellious  "Sam.  Johnson"  turn  him 
to  the  Bookselling  guild,  and  the  wondrous  chaos  of 
"Author  by  trade;"  and,  though  ushered  into  it  only 
by  that  dull  oily  Printer,  "with  loose  horseman's  coat 
and  such  a  great  bushy  wig  as  he  constantly  wore," 

25  and    only    as    subaltern    to    some   commanding    officer 
"Browne,  sitting  amid  tobacco-smoke  at  the  head  of 
a  long  table  in  the  alehouse  at  Clerkenwell," — gird  him- 
self together  for  the  warfare;  having  no  alternative! 
Little  less  contradictory  was  that    other  branch   of 

30  the  twofold  Problem  now  set  before  Johnson:  the  speak- 

latter,  that  this  of  "  Love's  being  a  native  of  the  rocks  "  actually 
has  a  •'  meaning." 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  115 

ing  forth  of  Truth.  Nay,  taken  by  itself,  it  had  in  those 
days  become  so  complex  as  to  puzzle  strongest  heads, 
with  nothing  else  imposed  on  them  for  solution;  and  even 
to  turn  high  heads  of  that  sort  into  mere  hollow  vizards, 
speaking  neither  truth  nor  falsehood,  nor  anything  but  5 
what  the  Prompter  and  Player  {viroKpir^)  put  into 
them.  Alas!  for  poor  Johnson,  Contradiction  abounded; 
in  spirituals  and  in  temporals,  within  and  without. 
Born  with  the  strongest  unconquerable  love  of  just 
Insight,  he  must  begin  to  live  and  learn  in  a  scene  where  10 
Prejudice  flourishes  with  rank  luxuriance.  England  was 
all  confused  enough,  sightless  and  yet  restless,  take  it 
where  you  would;  but  figure  the  best  intellect  in  England 
nursed  up  to  manhood  in  the  idol-cavern  of  a  poor 
Tradesman's  house,  in  the  cathedral  city  of  Lichfield!  15 
What  is  Truth?  said  jesting  Pilate;  What  is  Truth? 
might  earnest  Johnson  much  more  emphatically  say. 
Truth,  no  longer,  like  the  Phoenix,  in  rainbow  plumage, 
"  poured,  from  her  glittering  beak,  such  tones  of  sweetest 
melody  as  took  captive  every  ear:"  the  Phcenix  (waxing  20 
old)  had  well-nigh  ceased  her  singing,  and  empty  weari- 
some Cuckoos,  and  doleful  monotonous  Owls,  innu- 
merable Jays  also,  and  twittering  Sparrows  on  the 
housetops,  pretended  they  were  repeating  her. 

It  was  wholly  a  divided  age,  that  of  Johnson;  Unity  25 
existed  nowhere,  in  its  Heaven,  or  in  its  Earth.  Society, 
through  every  fiber,  was  rent  asunder;  all  things,  it  was 
then  becoming  visible,  but  could  not  then  be  understood, 
were  moving  onwards,  with  an  impulse  received  ages 
before,  yet  now  first  with  a  decisive  rapidity,  towards  30 


Il6  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

that  great  chaotic  gulf,  where,  whether  in  the  shape  of 
French  Revolutions,  Reform  Bills,  or  what  shape  soever 
bloody  or  bloodless,  the  descent  and  engulfment  assume, 
we  now  see  them  weltering  and  boiling.  Already  Cant, 
5  as  once  before  hinted,  had  begun  to  play  its  wonderful 
part  (for  the  hour  was  come):  two  ghastly  apparitions, 
unreal  simulacra  both,  Hypocrisy  and  Atheism  are 
already,  in  silence,  parting  the  world.  Opinion  and  Ac- 
tion, which  should  live  together  as  wedded  pair,  "one 

10  flesh,"  more  properly  as  Soul  and  Body,  have  commenced 
their  open  quarrel,  and  are  suing  for  a  separate  main- 
tenance,— as  if  they  could  exist  separately.  To  the 
earnest  mind,  in  any  position,  firm  footing  and  a  life 
of  Truth  was  becoming  daily  more  difficult:  in  Johnson's 

15  position  it  was  more  difficult  than  in  almost  any  other. 
If,  as  for  a  devout  nature  was  inevitable  and  indis- 
pensable, he  looked  up  to  Religion,  as  to  the  pole-star 
of  his  voyage,  already  there  was  no  fixed  pole-star  any 
longer  visible;  but  two  stars,  a  whole  constellation  of 

20  stars,  each  proclaiming  itself  as  the  true.  There  was  the 
red  portentous  comet-star  of  Infidelity;  the  dimmer-burn- 
ing and  dimmer  fixed-star  uncertain  now  whether  not 
an  atmospheric  meteor  of  Orthodoxy:  which  of  these  to 
choose?    The  keener  intellects  of  Europe  had,  almost 

25  without  exception,  ranged  themselves  under  the  former; 
for  some  half  century,  it  had  been  the  general  effort  of 
European  speculation  to  proclaim  that  Destruction  of 
falsehood  was  the  only  Truth;  daily  had  Denial  waxed 
stronger  and  stronger,  Belief  sunk  more  and  more  into 

3°  decay.    From  our  Bolingbrokes  and  Tolands  the  skepti- 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  117 

cal  fever  had  passed  into  France,  into  Scotland;  and  al- 
ready it  smouldered,  far  and  wide,  secretly  eating  out  the 
heart  of  England.  Bayle  had  played  his  part;  Voltaire, 
on  a  wider  theater,  was  playing  his, — Johnson's  senior 
by  some  fifteen  years:  Hume  and  Johnson  were  children  5 
almost  of  the  same  year.  To  this  keener  order  of  in- 
tellects did  Johnson's  indisputably  belong;  was  he  to 
join  them;  was  he  to  oppose  them?  A  complicated  ques- 
tion: for,  alas!  the  Church  itself  is  no  longer,  even  to 
him,  wholly  of  true  adamant,  but  of  adamant  and  baked  10 
mud  conjoined:  the  zealously  Devout  must  find  his 
Church  tottering;  and  pause  amazed  to  see,  instead  of 
inspired  Priest,  many  a  swine-feeding  Trulliber  minister- 
ing at  her  altar.  It  is  not  the  least  curious  of  the  inco- 
herences which  Johnson  had  to  reconcile,  that,  though  15 
by  nature  contemptuous  and  incredulous,  he  was,  at 
that  time  of  day,  to  find  his  safety  and  glory  in  defend- 
ing, with  his  whole  might,  the  traditions  of  the  elders. 

Not  less  perplexingly  intricate,  and  on  both  sides  hol- 
low or  questionable,  was  the  aspect  of  Politics.  Whigs  20 
struggling  blindly  forward,  Tories  holding  blindly  back; 
each  with  some  forecast  of  a  half  truth;  neither  with  any 
forecast  of  the  whole!  Admire  here  this  other  Contra- 
diction in  the  life  of  Johnson;. that,  though  the  most  un- 
governable, and  in  practice  the  most  independent  of  25 
men,  he  must  be  a  Jacobite,  and  worshiper  of  the  Di- 
vine Right.  In  politics  also  there  are  Irreconcilables 
enough  for  him.  As  indeed  how  could  it  be  otherwise? 
For  when  religion  is  torn  asunder,  and  the  very  heart  of 
man's  existence  set  against  itself,  then  in  all  subordinate  30 


IlS  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

departments  there  must  needs  be  hollowness,  incoher- 
ence. The  English  Nation  had  rebelled  against  a  Ty- 
rant; and,  by  the  hands  of  religious  tyrannicides,  ex- 
acted stern  vengeance  of  him:  Democracy  had  risen 
5  iron-sinewed,  and, "  like  an  infant  Hercules,  strangled  ser- 
pents in  its  cradle."  But  as  yet  none  knew  the  meaning 
or  extent  of  the  phenomenon:  Europe  was  not  ripe  for 
it;  not  to  be  ripened  for  it  but  by  the  culture  and  various 
experience  of  another  century  and  a  half.     And  now, 

10  when  the  King-killers  were  all  swept  away,  and  a 
milder  second  picture  was  painted  over  the  canvas  of 
the  first,  and  betitled  "  Glorious  Revolution,"  who 
doubted  but  the  catastrophe  was  over,  the  whole  busi- 
ness finished,  and  Democracy  gone  to  its  long  sleep? 

15  Yet  was  it  like  a  business  finished  and  not  finished;  a 
lingering  uneasiness  dwelt  in  all  minds:  the  deep-lying, 
resistless  Tendency,  which  had  still  to  be  obeyed,  could 
no  longer  be  recognized;  thus  was  there  half-ness,  in- 
sincerity, uncertainty  in  men's  ways;  instead  of  heroic 

20  Puritans  and  heroic  Cavaliers,  came  now  a  dawdling 
set  of  argumentative  Whigs,  and  a  dawdling  set  of  deaf- 
eared  Tories;  each  half- foolish,  each  half- false.  The 
Whigs  were  false  and  without  basis;  inasmuch  as  their 
whole  object  was  Resistance,  Criticism,  Demolition, — 

25  they  knew  not  why,  or  towards  what  issue.  In  Whig- 
gism,  ever  since  a  Charles  and  his  Jeffries  had  ceased  to 
meddle  with  it,  and  to  have  any  Russel  or  Sidney  to 
meddle  with,  there  could  be  no  divineness  of  character; 
nor  till,  in  these  latter  days,  it  took  the  figure  of  a  thor- 

30  ough-going,  all-defying  Radicalism,  was  there  any  solid 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  119 

footing  for  it  to  stand  on.  Of  the  like  uncertain,  half- 
hollow  nature  had  Toryism  become,  in  Johnson's  time; 
preaching  forth  indeed  an  everlasting  truth,  the  duty  of 
Loyalty;  yet  now  (ever  since  the  final  expulsion  of  the 
Stuarts)  having  no  Person,  but  only  an  Office  to  be  loyal  5 
to;  no  living  Soul  to  worship,  but  only  a  dead  velvet- 
cushioned  Chair.  Its  attitude,  therefore,  was  stiff- 
necked  refusal  to  move;  as  that  of  Whiggism  was  clam- 
orous command  to  move, — let  rhyme  and  reason,  on 
both  hands,  say  to  it  what  they  might.  The  conse-  10 
quence  was:  Immeasurable  floods  of  contentious  jargon, 
tending  nowhither;  false  conviction;  false  resistance  to 
conviction;  decay  (ultimately  to  become  decease)  of 
whatsoever  was  once  understood  by  the  words  Principle 
or  Honesty  of  heart;  the  louder  triumph  of  Half-ness  15 
and  Plausibility  over  Whole-ness  and  Truth; — at  last, 
this  all-overshadowing  efflorescence  of  Quackery,  which 
we  now  see,  with  all  its  deadening  and  killing  fruits,  in 
all  its  innumerable  branches,  down  to  the  lowest.  How, 
between  these  jarring  extremes,  wherein  the  rotten  lay  20 
so  inextricably  intermingled  with  the  sound,  and  as  yet 
no  eye  could  see  through  the  ulterior  meaning  of  the 
matter,  was  a  faithful  and  true  man  to  adjust  himself  ? 

That  Johnson,  in  spite  of  all  drawbacks,  adopted  the 
Conservative  side;  stationed  himself  as  the  unyielding  25 
opponent  of  Innovation,  resolute  to  hold  fast  the  form 
of  sound  words,  could  not  but  increase,  in  no  small 
measure,  the  difficulties  he  had  to  strive  with.  We  mean 
the  moral  difficulties;  for  in  economical  respects,  it  might 
be  pretty  equally  balanced;  the  Tory  servants  of  the  Pub-  30 


120  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

lie  had  perhaps  about  the  same  chance  of  promotion  as 
the  Whig:  and  all  the  promotion  Johnson  aimed  at  was 
the  privilege  to  live.  But,  for  what,  though  unavowed, 
was  no  less  indispensable,  for  his  peace  of  conscience, 
5  and  the  clear  ascertainment  and  feeling  of  his  Duty  as 
an  inhabitant  of  God's  world,  the  case  was  hereby  ren- 
dered much  more  complex.  To  resist  Innovation  is  easy 
enough  on  one  condition:  that  you  resist  Inquiry.  This 
is,  and  was,  the  common  expedient  of  your  common 

10  Conservatives;  but  it  would  not  do  for  Johnson:  he  was 
a  zealous  recommender  and  practicer  of  Inquiry;  once 
for  all,  could  not  and  would  not  believe,  much  less  speak 
and  act,  a  Falsehood:  the  form  of  sound  words,  which 
he  held  fast,  must  have  a  meaning  in  it.    Here  lay  the 

15  difficulty:  to  behold  a  portentous  mixture  of  True  and 
False,  and  feel  that  he  must  dwell  and  fight  there;  yet 
to  love  and  defend  only  the  True.  How  worship,  when 
you  cannot  and  will  not  be  an  idolater;  yet  cannot  help 
discerning  that  the  Symbol  of  your  Divinity  has  half  be- 

20  come  idolatrous?  This  was  the  question,  which  John- 
son, the  man  both  of  clear  eye  and  devout  believing  heart, 
must  answer, — at  peril  of  his  life.  The  Whig  or  Skeptic, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  a  much  simpler  part  to  play. 
To  him  only  the  idolatrous  side  of  things,  nowise  the 

25  divine  one,  lay  visible:  not  worship,  therefore,  nay  in 
the  strict  sense  not  heart-honesty,  only  at  most  lip-  and 
hand-honesty,  is  required  of  him.  What  spiritual  force 
is  his,  he  can  conscientiously  employ  in  the  work  of 
cavilling,  of  pulling  down  what  is  False.    For  the  rest, 

30  that  there  is  or  can  be  any  Truth  of  a  higher  than  sensual 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  121 

nature,  has  not  occurred  to  him.  The  utmost,  there- 
fore, that  he  as  man  has  to  aim  at,  is  Respectability, 
the  suffrages  of  his  fellow-men.  Such  suffrages  he  may- 
weigh  as  well  as  count;  or  count  only:  according  as  he 
is  a  Burke,  or  a  Wilkes.  But  beyond  these  there  lies  5 
nothing  divine  for  him;  these  attained,  all  is  attained. 
Thus  is  his  whole  world  distinct  and  rounded  in;  a  clear 
goal  is  set  before  him;  a  firm  path,  rougher  or  smoother; 
at  worst  a  firm  region  wherein  to  seek  a  path:  let  him 
gird  up  his  loins,  and  travel  on  without  misgivings!  10 
For  the  honest  Conservative,  again,  nothing  is  distinct, 
nothing  rounded  in:  Respectability  can  nowise  be  his 
highest  Godhead;  not  one  aim,  but  two  conflicting  aims 
to  be  continually  reconciled  by  him,  has  he  to  strive 
after.  A  difficult  position,  as  we  said;  which  accordingly  15 
the  most  did,  even  in  those  days,  but  half  defend,— by 
the  surrender,  namely,  of  their  own  too  cumbersome 
honesty,  or  even  understanding;  after  which  the  com- 
pletest  defense  was  worth  little.  Into  this  difficult  po- 
sition Johnson,  nevertheless,  threw  himself:  found  it  in-  20 
deed  full  of  difficulties;  yet  held  it  out  manfully  as  an 
honest-hearted,  open-sighted  man,  while  life  was  in  him. 
Such  was  that  same  "twofold  Problem"  set  before 
Samuel  Johnson.  Consider  all  these  moral  difficulties; 
and  add  to  them  the  fearful  aggravation,  which  lay  in  25 
that  other  circumstance,  that  he  needed  a  continual  ap- 
peal to  the  Public,  must  continually  produce  a  certain 
impression  and  conviction  on  the  Public;  that  if  he  did 
not,  he  ceased  to  have  "provision  for  the  day  that  was 
passing  over  him,"  he  could  not  any  longer  live!    How  30 


122  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

a  vulgar  character  once  launched  into  this  wild  element; 
driven  onwards  by  Fear  and  Famine;  without  other  aim 
than  to  clutch  what  Provender  (of  Enjoyment  in  any 
kind)  he  could  get,  always  if  possible  keeping  quite 
5  clear  of  the  Gallows  and  Pillory  (that  is  to  say,  minding 
needfully  both  "person"  and  "character"), — would  have 
floated  hither  and  thither  in  it;  and  contrived  to  eat  some 
three  repasts  daily,  and  wear  some  three  suits  yearly, 
and  then  to  depart  and  disappear,  having  consumed  his 

io  last  ration:  all  this  might  be  worth  knowing,  but  were 
in  itself  a  trivial  knowledge.  How  a  noble  man,  resolute 
for  the  Truth,  to  whom  Shams  and  Lies  were  once  for  all 
an  abomination, — was  to  act  in  it:  here  lay  the  mystery. 
By  what  methods,  by  what  gifts  of  eye  and  hand,  does 

15  a  heroic  Samuel  Johnson,  now  when  cast  forth  into  that 
waste  Chaos  of  Authorship,  maddest  of  things,  a  mingled 
Phlegethon  and  Fleet-ditch,  with  its  floating  lumber, 
and  sea-krakens,  and  mud-specters, — shape  himself  a 
voyage;  of  the  transient  driftwood,  and  the  enduring  iron, 

20  build  him  a  seaworthy  Lifeboat,  and  sail  therein,  un- 
drowned,  unpolluted,  through  the  roaring  "mother  of 
dead  dogs,"  onwards  to  an  eternal  Landmark,  and  City 
that  hath  foundations?  This  high  question  is  even  the 
one  answered  in  Boswell's  Book;  which  Book  we  there- 

25  fore,  not  so  falsely,  have  named  a  Heroic  Poem;  for  in  it 
there  lies  the  whole  argument  of  such.  Glory  to  our  brave 
Samuel!  He  accomplished  this  wonderful  Problem;  and 
now  through  long  generations  we  point  to  him,  and  say: 
Here  also  was  a  Man;  let  the  world  once  more  have 

30  assurance  of  a  Man! 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  1 23 

Had  there  been  in  Johnson,  now  when  afloat  on  that 
confusion  worse  confounded  of  grandeur  and  squalor, 
no  light  but  an  earthly  outward  one,  he  too  must  have 
made  shipwreck.  With  his  diseased  body,  and  vehement 
voracious  heart,  how  easy  for  him  to  become  a  carpe-  5 
diem  Philosopher,  like  the  rest,  and  live  and  die  as 
miserably  as  any  Boyce  of  that  Brotherhood!  But 
happily  there  was  a  higher  light  for  him;  shining  as  a 
lamp  to  his  path;  which,  in  all  paths,  would  teach  him 
to  act  and  walk  not  as  a  fool,  but  as  wise,  and  in  those  10 
evil  days  also,  "redeeming  the  time."  Under  dimmer 
or  clearer  manifestations,  a  Truth  had  been  revealed  to 
him:  I  also  am  a  Man;  even  in  this  unutterable  element  of 
Authorship,  I  may  live  as  beseems  a  Man!  That  Wrong 
is  not  only  different  from  Right,  but  that  it  is  in  strict  15 
scientific  terms  infinitely  different;  even  as  the  gaining 
of  the  whole  world  set  against  the  losing  of  one's  own 
soul,  or  (as  Johnson  had  it)  a  Heaven  set  against  a  Hell; 
that  in  all  situations  (out  of  the  Pit  of  Tophet),  wherein 
a  living  Man  has  stood  or  can  stand,  there  is  actually  20 
a  Prize  of  quite  infinite  value  placed  within  his  reach, 
namely,  a  Duty  for  him  to  do:  this  highest  Gospel,  which 
forms  the  basis  and  worth  of  all  other  Gospels  whatso- 
ever, had  been  revealed  to  Samuel  Johnson;  and  the  man 
had  believed  it,  and  laid  it  faithfully  to  heart.  Such  25 
knowledge  of  the  transcendental,  immeasurable  charac- 
ter of  Duty  we  call  the  basis  of  all  Gospels,  the  essence 
of  all  Religion:  he  who  with  his  whole  soul  knows  not 
this  as  yet  knows  nothing,  as  yet  is  properly  nothing. 

This,  happily  for  him,  Johnson  was  one  of  those  that  30 


124  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

knew;  under  a  certain  authentic  Symbol  it  stood  forever 
present  to  his  eyes:  a  Symbol,  indeed,  waxing  old  as 
doth  a  garment;  yet  which  had  guided  forward  as  their 
Banner  and  celestial  Pillar  of  Fire,  innumerable  saints 
5  and  witnesses,  the  fathers  of  our  modern  world;  and  for 
him  also  had  still  a  sacred  significance.  It  does  not  ap- 
pear that  at  any  time  Johnson  was  what  we  call  irre- 
ligious: but  in  his  sorrows  and  isolation,  when  hope  died 
away,  and  only  a  long  vista  of  suffering  and  toil  lay  be- 

10  fore  him  to  the  end,  then  first  did  Religion  shine  forth 
in  its  meek,  everlasting  clearness;  even  as  the  stars  do 
in  black  night,  which  in  the  daytime  and  dusk  were 
hidden  by  inferior  lights.  How  a  true  man,  in  the  midst 
of  errors  and  uncertainties,  shall  work  out  for  himself 

15  a  sure  Life-truth;  and  adjusting  the  transient  to  the 
eternal,  amid  the  fragments  of  ruined  Temples  build  up, 
with  toil  and  pain,  a  little  Altar  for  himself,  and  worship 
there;  how  Samuel  Johnson,  in  the  era  of  Voltaire,  can 
purify  and  fortify  his  soul,  and  hold  real  communion  with 

20  the  Highest,  "in  the  Church  of  St.  Clement  Danes:" 
this  too  stands  all  unfolded  in  his  Biography,  and  is 
among  the  most  touching  and  memorable  things  there; 
a  thing  to  be  looked  at  with  pity,  admiration,  awe. 
Johnson's  Religion  was  as  the  light  of  life  to  him;  with- 

25  out  it  his  heart  was  all  sick,  dark,  and  had  no  guidance 
left. 

He  is  now  enlisted,  or  impressed,  into  that  unspeak- 
able shoeblack-seraph  Army  of  Authors;  but  can  feel 
hereby  that  he  fights  under  a  celestial  flag,  and  will  quit 

30  him  like  a  man.    The  first  grand  requisite,  an  assured 


BOSWELLS  LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  1 25 

heart,  he  therefore  has:  what  his  outward  equipments, 
and  accouterments  are,  is  the  next  question;  an  impor- 
tant, though  inferior  one.  His  intellectual  stocky  in- 
trinsically viewed,  is  perhaps  inconsiderable:  the  fur- 
nishings of  an  English  School  and  English  University;  5 
good  knowledge  of  the  Latin  tongue,  a  more  uncertain 
one  of  Greek:  this  is  a  rather  slender  stock  of  Education 
wherewith  to  front  the  world.  But  then  it  is  to  be  re- 
membered that  his  world  was  England;  that  such  was 
the  culture  England  commonly  supplied  and  expected.  10 
Besides  Johnson  has  been  a  voracious  reader,  though  a 
desultory  one,  and  oftenest  in  strange  scholastic,  too 
obsolete  Libraries;  he  has  also  rubbed  shoulders  with  the 
press  of  actual  Life,  for  some  thirty  years  now:  views  or 
hallucinations  of  innumerable  things  are  weltering  to  and  15 
fro  in  him.  Above  all,  be  his  weapons  what  they  may, 
he  has  an  arm  that  can  wield  them.  Nature  has  given 
him  her  choicest  gift:  an  open  eye  and  heart.  He  will 
look  on  the  world,  wheresoever  he  can  catch  a  glimpse 
of  it,  with  eager  curiosity :  to  the  last,  we  find  this  a  strik-  20 
ing  characteristic  of  him;  for  all  human  interests  he  has 
a  sense;  the  meanest  handicraftsman  could  interest  him, 
even  in  extreme  age,  by  speaking  of  his  craft:  the  ways 
of  men  are  all  interesting  to  him;  any  human  thing  that 
he  did  not  know  he  wished  to  know.  Reflection,  more-  25 
over,  Meditation,  was  what  he  practiced  incessantly  with 
or  without  his  will :  for  the  mind  of  the  man  was  earnest, 
deep  as  well  as  humane.  Thus  would  the  world,  such 
fragments  of  it  as  he  could  survey,  form  itself,  or  con- 
tinually tend  to  form  itself,  into  a  coherent  whole;  on  30 


126  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

any  and  on  all  phases  of  which  his  vote  and  voice  must  be 
well  worth  listening  to.  As  a  Speaker  of  the  Word,  he 
will  speak  real  words;  no  idle  jargon  or  hollow  triviality 
will  issue  from  him.  His  aim,  too,  is  clear,  attainable, 
5  that  of  working  for  his  wages:  let  him  do  this  honestly, 
and  all  else  will  follow  of  its  own  accord. 

With  such  omens,  into  such  a  warfare,  did  Johnson  go 
forth.  A  rugged,  hungry  Kerne,  or  Gallowglass,  as 
we  called  him:  yet  indomitable;  in  whom  lay  the  true 

10  spirit  of  a  Soldier.  With  giant's  force  he  toils,  since  such 
is  his  appointment,  were  it  but  at  hewing  of  wood  and 
drawing  of  water  for  old  sedentary  bushy-wigged  Cave; 
distinguishes  himself  by  mere  quantity,  if  there  is  to  be 
no  other  distinction.     He  can  write  all  things;  frosty 

15  Latin  verses,  if  these  are  the  saleable  commodity;  Book- 
prefaces,  Political  Philippics,  Review  Articles,  Parlia- 
mentary Debates:  all  things  he  does  rapidly;  still  more 
surprising,  all  things  he  does  thoroughly  and  well.  How 
he  sits  there,  in  his  rough-hewn,  amorphous  bulk,  in 

20  that  upper-room  at  St.  John's  Gate,  and  trundles  off 
sheet  after  sheet  of  those  Senate-of-Lilliput  Debates,  to 
the  clamorous  Printer's  Devils  waiting  for  them,  with 
insatiable  throat,  downstairs;  himself  perhaps  impransus 
all  the  while!    Admire  also  the  greatness  of  Literature; 

25  how  a  grain  of  mustard-seed  cast  into  its  Nile-waters, 
shall  settle  in  the  teeming  mold,  and  be  found,  one  day, 
as  a  Tree,  in  whose  branches  all  the  fowls  of  heaven  may 
lodge.  Was  it  not  so  with  these  Lilliput  Debates?  In 
that  small  project  and  act  began  the  stupendous  Fourth 

30  Estate;  whose  wide  world-embracing  influences  what 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  1 27 

eye  can  take  in;  in  whose  boughs  are  there  not  already 
fowls  of  strange  feather  lodged?  Such  things,  and  far 
stranger,  were  done  in  that  wondrous  old  Portal,  even  in 
latter  times.  And  then  figure  Samuel  dining  "  behind  the 
screen,"  from  a  trencher  covertly  handed  in  to  him,  at  a  5 
preconcerted  nod  from  the  "great  bushy  wig;"  Samuel 
too  ragged  to  show  face,  yet  "made  a  happy  man  of" 
by  hearing  his  praise  spoken.  If  to  Johnson  himself, 
then  much  more  to  us,  may  that  St.  John's  Gate  be  a 
place  we  can  "  never  pass  without  veneration."  1  IO 

1  All  Johnson's  places  of  resort  and  abode  are  venerable,  and 
now  indeed  to  the  many  as  well  as  to  the  few ;  for  his  name  has 
become  great ;  and,  as  we  must  often  with  a  kind  of  sad  admira- 
tion recognize,  there  is,  even  to  the  rudest  man,  no  greatness  so 
venerable  as  intellectual,  as  spiritual  greatness;  nay,  properly,  15 
there  is  no  other  venerable  at  all.  For  example,  what  soul-sub- 
duing magic,  for  the  very  clown  or  craftsman  of  our  England, 
lies  in  the  word  "  Scholar  "  !  "  He  is  a  Scholar :  "  he  is  a  man 
wiser  than  we;  of  a  wisdom  to  us  boundless,  infinite :  who  shall 
speak  his  worth  !  Such  things,  we  say,  fill  us  with  a  certain  20 
pathetic  admiration  of  defaced  and  obstructed  yet  glorious  man ; 
archangel  though  in  ruins, — or,  rather,  though  in  rubbish,  of 
encumbrances  and  mud-incrustations,  which  also  are  not  to  be 
perpetual. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mad-whirling,  all-forgetting  London,  the  25 
haunts  of  the  mighty  that  were  can  seldom  without  a  strange  diffi- 
culty be  discovered.  Will  any  man,  for  instance,  tell  us  which 
bricks  it  was  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Buildings,  that  Ben  Jonson's  hand 
and  trowel  laid?  No  man,  it  is  to  be  feared,— and  also  grumbled 
at.  With  Samuel  Johnson  may  it  prove  otherwise  !  A  Gentle-  30 
man  of  the  British  Museum  is  said  to  have  made  drawings  of  all 
his  residences  :  the  blessing  of  Old  Mortality  be  upon  him  !  We 
ourselves,  not  without  labor  and  risk,  lately  discovered  Gough 


128  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

Poverty,  Distress,  and  as  yet  Obscurity,  are  his  coni' 
panions;  so  poor  is  he  that  his  Wife  must  leave  him,  and 
seek  shelter  among  other  relations;  Johnson's  household 
has  accommodation  for  one  inmate  only.     To  all  his 

5  ever-varying,  ever-recurring  troubles,  moreover,  must  be 
added  this  continual  one  of  ill  health,  and  its  concomi- 
tant depressiveness:  a  galling  load,  which  would  have 
crushed  most  common  mortals  into  desperation,  is  his 
appointed  ballast  and  life-burden;   he   "could  not  re- 

10  member  the  day  he  had  passed  free  from  pain."  Never- 
theless, Life,  as  we  said  before,  is  always  Life:  a  healthy 
soul,  imprison  it  as  you  will,  in  squalid  garrets,  shabby 
coat,  bodily  sickness,  or  whatever  else,  will  assert  its 

Square,  between   Fleet   Street  and  Holborn  (adjoining  both  to 

15  Bolt  Court  and  to  Johnson's  Court);  and  on  the  second  day 
of  search,  the  very  House  there,  wherein  the  English  Dictionary 
was  composed.  It  is  the  first  or  corner  house  on  the  right  hand, 
as  you  enter  through  the  arched  way  from  the  North-west.  The 
actual   occupant,   an    elderly,   well-washed,    decent-looking   man, 

20  invited  us  to  enter;  and  courteously  undertook  to  be  cicerone; 
though  in  his  memory  lay  nothing  but  the  foolishest  jumble  and 
hallucination.  It  is  a  stout,  old-fashioned,  oak-balustraded  house : 
"  I  have  spent  many  a  pound  and  penny  on  it  since  then,"  said 
the  worthy  landlord;    "here,    you    see,  this    Bedroom  was   the 

25  Doctor's  study;  that  was  the  garden"  (a  plot  of  delved  ground 
somewhat  larger  than  a  bed-quilt),  "where  he  walked  for  exer- 
cise; these  three  Garret  Bedrooms"  (where  his  three  copyists  sat 
and  wrote)  "  were  the  place  he  kept  his — Pupils  in"!  Tempus 
edax  rerum  !     Yet  ferax  also  :  for  our  friend  now  added,  with  a 

30  wistful  look,  which  strove  to  seem  merely  historical :  "  I  let  it  all 
in  Lodgings,  to  respectable  gentlemen;  by  the  quarter,  or  the 
month  ;  its  all  one  to  me." — "  To  me  also,"  whispered  the  ghost 
of  Samuel,  as  we  went  pensively  our  ways. 


BOS  WELL'S   LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  1 29 

heaven-granted  indefeasible  Freedom,  its  right  to  con- 
quer difficulties,  to  do  work,  even  to  feel  gladness.    John- 
son does  not  whine  over  his  existence,  but   manfully 
makes  the  most  and  best  of  it.    "He  said,  a  man  might 
live  in  a  garret  at  eighteenpence  a- week:  few  people    5 
would  inquire  where  he  lodged;  and  if  they  did,  it  was 
easy  to  say, '  Sir,  I  am  to  be  found  at  such  a  place.'    By 
spending  threepence  in  a  coffeehouse,  he  might  be  for 
some  hours  every  day  in  very  good  company;  he  might 
dine  for  sixpence,  breakfast  on  bread-and-milk  for  a  10 
penny,  and  do  without  supper.     On  clean-shirt  day  he 
went  abroad  and  paid  visits."    Think  by  whom  and  of 
whom  this  was  uttered,  and  ask  then,  Whether  there  is 
more  pathos  in  it  than  in  a  whole  circulating-library  of 
Giaours  and  Harolds,  or  less  pathos?     On  another  oc-  15 
casion,   "when  Dr.   Johnson,   one  day,  read  his  own 
Satire,  in  which  the  life  of  a  scholar  is  painted,  with  the 
various  obstructions  thrown  in  his  way  to  fortune  and 
to  fame,  he  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears:  Mr.  Thrale's 
family  and  Mr.  Scott  only  were  present,  who,  in  a  jocose  20 
way,  clapped  him  on  the  back,  and  said,  'What's  all 
this,  my  dear  sir?    Why,  you  and  I  and  Hercules,  you 
know,  were  all  troubled  with  melancholy.'   He  was  a  very 
large  man,  and  made  out  the  triumvirate  with  Johnson 
and  Hercules  comically  enough."     These  were  sweet  25 
tears;  the  sweet  victorious  remembrance  lay  in  them  of 
toils  indeed  frightful,  yet  never  flinched  from,  and  now 
triumphed  over.     "One  day  it  shall  delight  you  to  re- 
member labor  done!" — Neither,  though  Johnson  is  ob- 
scure and  poor,  need  the  highest  enjoyment  of  existence,  30 
Prose — 9 


130  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

that  of  heart  freely  communing  with  heart,  be  denied 
him.  Savage  and  he  wander  homeless  through  the 
streets;  without  bed,  yet  not  without  friendly  converse; 
such  another  conversation  not,  it  is  like,  producible  in 
5  the  proudest  drawing-room  of  London.  Nor,  under  the 
void  Night,  upon  the  hard  pavement,  are  their  own 
woes  the  only  topic:  nowise;  they  "will  stand  by  their 
country,"  they  there,  the  two  "Backwoodsmen"  of  the 
Brick  Desert! 

10  Of  all  outward  evils  Obscurity  is  perhaps  in  itself  the 
least.  To  Johnson,  as  to  a  healthy-minded  man,  the 
fantastic  article,  sold  or  given  under  the  title  of  Fame, 
had  little  or  no  value  but  its  intrinsic  one.  He  prized 
it  as  the  means  of  getting  him  employment  and  good 

15  wages;  scarcely  as  anything  more.  His  light  and  guid- 
ance came  from  a  loftier  source;  of  which,  in  honest 
aversion  to  all  hypocrisy  or  pretentious  talk,  he  spoke  not 
to  men;  nay  perhaps,  being  of  a  healthy  mind,  had  never 
spoken  to  himself.    We  reckon  it  a  striking  fact  in  John- 

20  son's  history,  this  carelessness  of  his  to  Fame.  Most 
authors  speak  of  their  " Fame"  as  if  it  were  a  quite  price- 
less matter;  the  grand  ultimatum,  and  heavenly  Con- 
stantine's-banner  they  had  to  follow,  and  conquer  un- 
der.— Thy  "Fame!"     Unhappy  mortal,  where  will  it 

25  and  thou  both  be  in  some  fifty  years?  Shakespeare 
himself  has  lasted  but  two  hundred;  Homer  (partly  by 
accident)  three  thousand:  and  does  not  already  an 
Eternity  encircle  every  Me  and  every  Thee?  Cease 
then,  to  sit  feverishly  hatching  on  that  "Fame"  of  thine; 

30  and  flapping  and  shrieking  with  fierce  hisses,  like  brood- 


BOS  WELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  I31 

goose  on  her  last  egg,  if  man  shall  or  dare  approach  it! 
Quarrel  not  with  me,  hate  me  not,  my  brother:  make 
what  thou  canst  of  thy  egg,  and  welcome:  God  knows,  I 
will  not  steal  it;  I  believe  it  to  be  addle. — Johnson,  for 
his  part,  was  no  man  to  be  killed  by  a  review;  con-  5 
cerning  which  matter,  it  was  said  by  a  benevolent  per- 
son: If  any  author  can  be  reviewed  to  death,  let  it 
be,  with  all  convenient  dispatch,  done.  Johnson  thank- 
fully receives  any  word  spoken  in  his  favor;  is  nowise 
disobliged  by  a  lampoon,  but  will  look  at  it,  if  pointed  10 
out  to  him,  and  show  how  it  might  have  been  done 
better:  the  lampoon  itself  is  indeed  nothing,  a  soap- 
bubble  that  next  moment  will  become  a  drop  of  sour 
suds;  but  in  the  meanwhile,  if  it  do  anything,  it  keeps 
him  more  in  the  world's  eye,  and  the  next  bargain  will  be  15 
all  the  richer:  "Sir,  if  they  should  cease  to  talk  of  me, 
I  must  starve."  Sound  heart  and  understanding  head: 
these  fail  no  man,  not  even  a  Man  of  Letters! 

Obscurity,  however,  was,  in  Johnson's  case,  whether 
a  light  or  heavy  evil,  likely  to  be  no  lasting  one.  He  is  20 
animated  by  the  spirit  of  a  true  workman,  resolute  to  do 
his  work  well;  and  he  does  his  work  well;  all  his  work, 
that  of  writing,  that  of  living.  A  man  of  this  stamp  is 
unhappily  not  so  common  in  the  literary  or  in  any  other 
department  of  the  world,  that  he  can  continue  always  25 
unnoticed.  By  slow  degrees,  Johnson  emerges;  looming, 
at  first,  huge  and  dim  in  the  eye  of  an  observant  few; 
at  last  disclosed,  in  his  real  proportions,  to  the  eye  of  the 
whole  world,  and  encircled  with  a  "light-nimbus"  of 
glory,  so  that  whoso  is  not  blind  must  and  shall  behold  30 


132  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

him.  By  slow  degrees,  we  said;  for  this  also  is  notable; 
slow  but  sure:  as  his  fame  waxes  not  by  exaggerated 
clamor  of  what  he  seems  to  be,  but  by  better  and  better 
insight  of  what  he  is,  so  it  will  last  and  stand  wearing, 
5  being  genuine.  Thus  indeed  is  it  always,  or  nearly 
always,  with  true  fame.  The  heavenly  Luminary  rises 
amid  vapors;  star-gazers  enough  must  scan  it  with  criti- 
cal telescopes;  it  makes  no  blazing,  the  world  can  either 
look  at  it,  or  forbear  looking  at  it;  not  till  after  a  time  and 

10  times  does  its  celestial  eternal  nature  become  indubitable. 
Pleasant,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  blazing  of  a  Tar- 
barrel;  the  crowd  dance  merrily  round  it,  with  loud 
huzzaing,  universal  three-times-three,  and,  like  Homer's 
peasants,  "bless  the  useful  light:"  but  unhappily  it  so 

15  soon  ends  in  darkness,  foul  choking  smoke;  and  is  kicked 
into  the  gutters,  a  nameless  imbroglio  of  charred  staves, 
pitch-cinders,  and  vomissement  du  diable  ! 

But  indeed,  from  of  old,  Johnson  has  enjoyed  all,  or 
nearly  all,  that  Fame  can  yield  any  man:  the  respect,  the 

20  obedience  of  those  that  are  about  him  and  inferior  to 
him;  of  those  whose  opinion  alone  can  have  any  forcible 
impression  on  him.  A  little  circle  gathers  round  the  Wise 
man;  which  gradually  enlarges  as  the  report  thereof 
spreads,  and  more  can  come  to  see,  and  believe;  for 

25  Wisdom  is  precious,  and  of  irresistible  attraction  to  all. 
"An  inspired-idiot,"  Goldsmith,  hangs  strangely  about 
him;  though,  as  Hawkins  says,  "he  loved  not  Johnson, 
but  rather  envied  him  for  his  parts;  and  once  entreated 
a  friend  to  desist  from  praising  him,  'for  in  doing  so,' 

30  said  he,  'you  harrow  up  my  very  soul  J'  "    Yet,  on  the 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  133 

whole,  there  is  no  evil  in  the  "gooseberry-fool;"  but 
rather  much  good;  of  a  finer,  if  of  a  weaker,  sort  than 
Johnson's;  and  all  the  more  genuine  that  he  himself 
could  never  become  conscious  of  it, — though  unhappily 
never  cease  attempting  to  become  so:  the  author  of  the    s 
genuine  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  nill  he,  will  he,  must  needs 
fly  towards  such  a  mass  of  genuine  Manhood;  and  Dr. 
Minor  keep  gyrating  round  Dr.  Major,  alternately  at- 
tracted and  repelled.    Then  there  is  the  chivalrous  Top- 
ham  Beauclerk,  with  his  sharp  wit,  and  gallant  courtly  10 
ways:  there  is  Bennet  Langton,  an  orthodox  gentleman, 
and  worthy;  though  Johnson  once  laughed,  louder  almost 
than  mortal,  at  his  last  will  and  testament;  and  "could 
not  stop  his  merriment,  but  continued  it  all  the  way 
till  he  got  without  the  Temple-gate;  then  burst  into  such  15 
a  fit  of  laughter  that  he  appeared  to  be  almost  in  a  con- 
vulsion; and,  in  order  to  support  himself,  laid  hold  of 
one  of  the  posts  at  the  side  of  the  foot-pavement,  and 
sent  forth  peals  so  loud  that,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
his  voice  seemed  to  resound  from  Temple-bar  to  Fleet-  20 
ditch!"     Lastly  comes  his  solid-thinking,  solid-feeding 
Thrale,  the  well-beloved  man;  with  Thralia,  a  bright 
papilionaceous  creature,  whom  the  elephant  loved  to 
play  with,  and  wave  to  and  fro  upon  his  trunk.    Not  to 
speak  of  a  reverent  Bozzy,  for  what  need  is  there  farther?  25 
■ — Or  of  the  spiritual  Luminaries,  with  tongue  or  pen, 
who  made  that  age  remarkable;  or  of  Highland  Lairds 
drinking,  in  fierce  usquebaugh,  "Your  health,  Toctor 
Shonson!" — still  less  of  many  such  as  that  poor  "Mr. 
F.  Lewis,"  older  in  date,  of  whose  birth,  death,  and  whole  30 


134  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

terrestrial  res  gestce,  this  only,  and  strange  enough  this 
actually,  survives:  "Sir,  he  lived  in  London  and  hung 
loose  upon  society!"  Stat  Parvi  nominis  umbra. — 
In  his  fifty-third  year  he  is  beneficed,  by  the  royal 
5  bounty,  with  a  Pension  of  three  hundred  pounds.  Loud 
clamor  is  always  more  or  less  insane:  but  probably  the 
insanest  of  all  loud  clamors  in  the  eighteenth  century  was 
this  that  was  raised  about  Johnson's  Pension.  Men  seem 
to  be  led  by  the  noses;  but,  in  reality,  it  is  by  the  ears, — 

10  as  some  ancient  slaves  were,  who  had  their  ears  bored; 
or  as  some  modern  quadrupeds  may  be,  whose  ears  are 
long.  Very  falsely  was  it  said,  "Names  do  not  change 
Things;"  Names  do  change  Things;  nay,  for  most  part 
they  are  the  only  substance  which  mankind  can  discern 

15  in  Things.  The  whole  sum  that  Johnson,  during  the 
remaining  twenty  years  of  his  life,  drew  from  the  public 
funds  of  England,  would  have  supported  some  Supreme 
Priest  for  about  half  as  many  weeks;  it  amounts  very 
nearly  to  the  revenue  of  our  poorest  Church-Overseer 

20  for  one  twelvemonth.  Of  secular  Administrators  of 
Provinces,  and  Horse-subduers,  and  Game-destroyers, 
we  shall  not  so  much  as  speak:  but  who  were  the  Pri- 
mates of  England,  and  the  Primates  of  all  England, 
during   Johnson's   days?     No   man   has   remembered. 

25  Again,  is  the  Primate  of  all  England  something,  or  is  he 
nothing?  If  something,  then  what  but  the  man  who, 
in  the  supreme  degree,  teaches  and  spiritually  edifies, 
and  leads  towards  Heaven  by  guiding  wisely  through  the 
Earth,  the  living  souls  that  inhabit  England  ?    We  touch 

30  here  upon  deep  matters;  which  but  remotely  concern  us, 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  1 35 

and  might  lead  us  into  still  deeper:  clear,  in  the  mean- 
while, it  is  that  the  true  Spiritual  Edifier  and  Soul's- 
Father  of  all  England  was,  and  till  very  lately  continued 
to  be,  the  man  named  Samuel  Johnson, — whom  this 
scot-and-lot-paying  world  cackled  reproachfully  to  see  5 
remunerated  like  a  Supervisor  of  Excise! 

If  Destiny  had  beaten  hard  on  poor  Samuel,  and  did 
never  cease  to  visit  him  too  roughly,  yet  the  last  section 
of  his  Life  might  be  pronounced  victorious,  and  on  the 
whole  happy.  He  was  not  idle;  but  now  no  longer  10 
goaded  on  by  want;  the  light  which  had  shone  irradiating 
the  dark  haunts  of  Poverty  now  illuminates  the  circles 
of  Wealth,  of  a  certain  culture  and  elegant  intelligence; 
he  who  had  once  been  admitted  to  speak  with  Edmund 
Cave  and  Tobacco  Browne,  now  admits  a  Reynolds  15 
and  a  Burke  to  speak  with  him.  Loving  friends  are 
there;  Listeners,  even  Answerers:  the  fruit  of  his  long 
labors  lies  round  him  in  fair  legible  Writings,  of  Philos- 
ophy, Eloquence,  Morality,  Philology;  some  excellent, 
all  worthy  and  genuine  Works;  for  which,  too,  a  deep,  20 
earnest  murmur  of  thanks  reaches  him  from  all  ends  of 
his  Fatherland.  Nay,  there  are  works  of  Goodness,  of 
undying  Mercy,  which  even  he  has  possessed  the  power 
to  do:  "What  I  gave  I  have;  what  I  spent  I  had!"  Early 
friends  had  long  sunk  into  the  grave;  yet  in  his  soul  25 
they  ever  lived,  fresh  and  clear,  with  soft  pious  breath- 
ings towards  them,  not  without  a  still  hope  of  one  day 
meeting  them  again  in  purer  union.  Such  was  Johnson's 
Life:  the  victorious  Battle  of  a  free,  true  Man.  Finally 
he  died  the  death  of  the  free  and  true :  a  dark  cloud  of  30 


136  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

death,  solemn  and  not  untinged  with  haloes  of  immor- 
tal Hope,  "took  him  away,"  and  our  eyes  could  no 
longer  behold  him;  but  can  still  behold  the  trace  and 
impress  of  his  courageous  honest  spirit,  deep-legible  in 
S  the  World's  Business,  wheresoever  he  walked  and  was. 

To  estimate  the  quantity  of  Work  that  Johnson  per- 
formed, how  much  poorer  the  World  were  had  it  wanted 
him,  can,  as  in  all  such  cases,  never  be  accurately  done; 
cannot,  till  after  some  longer  space,  be  approximately 

10  done.  All  work  is  as  seed  sown;  it  grows  and  spreads, 
and  sows  itself  anew,  and  so,  in  endless  palingenesia, 
lives  and  works.  To  Johnson's  Writings,  good  and  solid, 
and  still  profitable  as  they  are,  we  have  already  rated 
his  Life  and  Conversation  as  superior.    By  the  one  and 

15  by  the  other,  who  shall  compute  what  effects  have  been 

produced,  and  are  still,  and  into  deep  Time,  producing? 

So  much,  however,  we  can  already  see:  It  is  now  some 

three  quarters  of  a  century  that  Johnson  has  been  the 

Prophet  of  the  English;  the  man  by  whose  light  the 

20  English  people,  in  public  and  in  private,  more  than  by 
any  other  man's,  have  guided  their  existence.  Higher 
light  than  that  immediately  practical  one;  higher  virtue 
than  an  honest  Prudence,  he  could  not  then  communi- 
cate; nor  perhaps  could  they  have  received:  such  light, 

25  such  virtue,  however,  he  did  communicate.  How  to 
thread  this  labyrinthic  Time,  the  fallen  and  falling  Ruin 
of  Times;  to  silence  vain  Scruples,  hold  firm  to  the  last 
the  fragments  of  old  Belief,  and  with  earnest  eye  still 
discern  some  glimpses  of  a  true  path,  and  go  forward 


BOS  WELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  I37 

thereon,  "in  a  world  where  there  is  much  to  be  done, 
and  little  to  be  known:"  this  is  what  Samuel  Johnson, 
by  act  and  word,  taught  his  nation;  what  his  nation  re- 
ceived and  learned  of  him,  more  than  of  any  other.  We 
can  view  him  as  the  preserver  and  transmitter  of  whatso-  J 
ever  was  genuine  in  the  spirit  of  Toryism;  which  genuine 
spirit,  it  is  now  becoming  manifest,  must  again  embody 
itself  in  all  new  forms  of  Society,  be  what  they  may,  that 
are  to  exist,  and  have  continuance — elsewhere  than  on 
Paper.  The  last  in  many  things,  Johnson  was  the  last  10 
genuine  Tory;  the  last  of  Englishmen  who,  with  strong 
voice  and  wholly-believing  heart,  preached  the  Doc- 
trine of  Standing-still;  who,  without  selfishness  or  slavish- 
ness,  reverenced  the  existing  Powers,  and  could  assert 
the  privileges  of  rank,  though  himself  poor,  neglected,  15 
and  plebeian;  who  had  heart-devoutness  with  heart- 
hatred  of  cant,  was  orthodox-religious  with  his  eyes 
open;  and  in  all  things  and  everywhere  spoke  out  in 
plain  English,  from  a  soul  wherein  Jesuitism  could  find 
no  harbor,  and  with  the  front  and  tone  not  of  a  diploma-  20 
tist  but  of  a  man. 

The  last  of  the  Tories  was  Johnson:  not  Burke,  as  is 
often  said;  Burke  was  essentially  a  Whig,  and  only  on 
reaching  the  verge  of  the  chasm  towards  which  Whig- 
gism  from  the  first  was  inevitably  leading,  recoiled;  and,  25 
like  a  man  vehement  rather  than  earnest,  a  resplendent 
far-sighted  Rhetorician  rather  than  a  deep,  sure  Thinker, 
recoiled  with  no  measure,  convulsively,  and  damaging 
what  he  drove  back  with  him. 

In  a  world  which  exists  by  the  balance  of  Antagonisms  30 


138  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

the  respective  merit  of  the  Conservator  and  the  Innova- 
tor must  ever  remain  debatable.  Great,  in  the  mean- 
while, and  undoubted  for  both  sides,  is  the  merit  of  him 
who,  in  a  day  of  Change,  walks  wisely,  honestly.  John- 
5  son's  aim  was  in  itself  an  impossible  one:  this  of  stem- 
ming the  eternal  Flood  of  Time;  of  clutching  all  things 
and  anchoring  them  down,  and  saying,  Move  not! — 
how  could  it,  or  should  it,  ever  have  success?  The 
strongest  man  can  but  retard  the  current  partially  and 

10  for  a  short  hour.  Yet  even  in  such  shortest  retardation, 
may  not  an  inestimable  value  lie?  If  England  has  es- 
caped the  blood-bath  of  a  French  Revolution;  and  may 
yet,  in  virtue  of  this  delay  and  of  the  experience  it  has 
given,  work  out  her  deliverance  calmly  into  a  new  Era, 

15  let  Samuel  Johnson,  beyond  all  contemporary  or  suc- 
ceeding men,  have  the  praise  for  it.  We  said  above  that 
he  was  appointed  to  be  Ruler  of  the  British  nation  for  a 
season:  whoso  will  look  beyond  the  surface,  into  the 
heart  of  the  world's  movements,  may  find  that  all  Pitt 

20  Administrations,  and  Continental  Subsidies,  and  Water- 
loo victories  rested  on  the  possibility  of  making  England, 
yet  a  little  while,  Toryish,  Loyal  to  the  Old;  and  this 
again  on  the  anterior  reality,  that  the  Wise  had  found 
such    Loyalty    still    practicable,    and    recommendable. 

25  England  had  its  Hume,  as  France  had  its  Voltaires  and 
Diderots;  but  the  Johnson  was  peculiar  to  us. 

If  we  ask  now,  by  what  endowment  it  mainly  was 
that  Johnson  realized  such  a  Life  for  himself  and  others; 
what  quality  of  character  the  main  phenomena  of  his 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  1 39 

Life  may  be  most  naturally  deduced  from,  and  his  other 
qualities  most  naturally  subordinated  to  in  our  concep- 
tion of  him,  perhaps  the  answer  were:  The  quality  of 
Courage,  of  Valor;  that  Johnson  was  a  Brave  Man. 
The  Courage  that  can  go  forth,  once  and  away,  to  Chalk-    5 
Farm,  and  have  itself  shot,  and  snuffed  out,  with  de- 
cency,  is  nowise  wholly  what  we  mean  here.     Such 
Courage  we  indeed  esteem  an  exceeding  small  matter; 
capable  of  coexisting  with  a  life  full  of  falsehood,  feeble- 
ness, poltroonery,  and  despicability.     Nay  oftener  it  is  10 
Cowardice  rather  that  produces  the  result:  for  consider, 
Is  the  Chalk-Farm  Pistoleer  inspired  with  any  reason- 
able Belief  and  Determination;  or  is  he  hounded  on  by 
haggard  indefinable  Fear, — how  he  will  be  cut  at  public 
places,  and  "plucked  geese  of  the  neighborhood"  will  15 
wag  their  tongues  at  him  a  plucked  goose?     If  he  go 
then,  and  be  shot  without  shrieking  or  audible  uproar, 
it  is  well  for  him:  nevertheless  there  is  nothing  amazing 
in  it.    Courage  to  manage  all  this  has  not  perhaps  been 
denied  to  any  man,  or  to  any  woman.    Thus,  do  not  re-  20 
cruiting  sergeants  drum  through  the  streets  of  manu- 
facturing towns,  and  collect  ragged  losels  enough;  every 
one  of  whom,  if  once  dressed  in  red,  and  trained  a  little, 
will  receive  fire  cheerfully  for  the  small  sum  of  one  shilling 
per  diem,  and  have  the  soul  blown  out  of  him  at  last,  25 
with  perfect  propriety.     The  Courage  that  dares  only 
die  is  on  the  whole  no  sublime  affair;  necessary  indeed, 
yet  universal;  pitiful  when  it  begins  to  parade  itself. 
On  this  Globe  of  ours  there  are  some  thirty-six  persons 
that  manifest  it,  seldom  with  the  smallest  failure,  dur-  3° 


140  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

ing  every  second  of  time.  Nay,  look  at  Newgate:  do  not 
the  offscourings  of  Creation,  when  condemned  to  the 
gallows,  as  if  they  were  not  men  but  vermin,  walk  thither 
with  decency,  and  even  to  the  scowls  and  hootings  of 
5  the  whole  Universe,  give  their  stern  good-night  in  si- 
lence? What  is  to  be  undergone  only  once,  we  may 
undergo;  what  must  be,  comes  almost  of  its  own  accord. 
Considered  as  Duellist,  what  a  poor  figure  does  the 
fiercest  Irish  Whiskerando  make  compared  with  any 
10  English  Game-cock,  such  as  you  may  buy  for  fifteen- 
pence! 

The  Courage  we  desire  and  prize  is  not  the  Courage 
to  die  decently,  but  to  live  manfully.     This,  when  by 
God's  grace  it  has  been  given,  lies  deep  in  the  soul; 
15  like  genial  heat,  fosters  all  other  virtues  and  gifts;  with- 
out it  they  could  not  live.    In  spite  of  our  innumerable 
Waterloos  and  Peterloos,  and  such  campaigning  as  there 
has  been,  this  Courage  we  allude  to  and  call  the  only 
true  one,  is  perhaps  rarer  in  these  last  ages  than  it  has 
20  been  in  any  other  since  the  Saxon  Invasion  under  Hen- 
gist.     Altogether  extinct  it  can  never  be  among  men; 
otherwise  the  species  Man  were  no  longer  for  this  world: 
here  and  there,  in  all  times,  under  various  guises,  men 
are  sent  hither  not  only  to  demonstrate  but  exhibit  it, 
25  and  testify,  as  from  heart  to  heart,  that  it  is  still  possible, 
still  practicable. 

Johnson,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  as  Man  of 

Letters,  was  one  of  such;  and,  in  good  truth,  "the  bravest 

of  the  brave."    What  mortal  could  have  more  to  war 

30  with?     Yet,  as  we  saw,  he  yielded  not,  faltered  not; 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON  141 

he  fought,  and  even,  such  was  his  blessedness,  prevailed. 
Whoso  will  understand  what  it  is  to  have  a  man's  heart 
may  find  that,  since  the  time  of  John  Milton,  no  braver 
heart  had  beat  in  any  English  bosom  than  Samuel 
Johnson  now  bore.  Observe,  too,  that  he  never  called  5 
himself  brave,  never  felt  himself  to  be  so;  the  more 
completely  was  so.  No  Giant  Despair,  no  Golgotha- 
Death-dance  or  Sorcerer's-Sabbath  of  "  Literary  Life  in 
London,"  appals  this  pilgrim;  he  works  resolutely  for 
deliverance;  in  still  defiance  steps  stoutly  along.  The  10 
thing  that  is  given  him  to  do,  he  can  make  himself  do; 
what  is  to  be  endured,  he  can  endure  in  silence. 

How  the  great  soul  of  old  Samuel,  consuming  daily 
his  own  bitter  unalleviable  allotment  of  misery  and  toil, 
shows  beside  the  poor  flimsy  little  soul  of  young  Boswell;  15 
one  day  flaunting  in  the  ring  of  vanity,  tarrying  by  the 
wine-cup  and  crying,  Aha,  the  wine  is  red;  the  next 
day  deploring  his  down-pressed,  night-shaded,  quite 
poor  estate,  and  thinking  it  unkind  that  the  whole 
movement  of  the  Universe  should  go  on,  while  his  20 
digestive-apparatus  had  stopped!  We  reckon  John- 
son's "talent  of  silence"  to  be  among  his  great  and  too 
rare  gifts.  Where  there  is  nothing  farther  to  be  done, 
there  shall  nothing  farther  be  said:  like  his  own  poor 
blind  Welshwoman,  he  accomplished  somewhat,  and  25 
also  "endured  fifty  years  of  wretchedness  with  unshaken 
fortitude."  How  grim  was  Life  to  him;  a  sick  Prison- 
house  and  Doubting-castle!  "His  great  business,"  he 
would  profess,  "was  to  escape  from  himself."  Yet 
towards  all  this  he  has  taken  his  position  and  resolution;  30 


142  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

can  dismiss  it  all  "  with  frigid  indifference,  having  little 
to  hope  or  to  fear."  Friends  are  stupid,  and  pusillan- 
imous, and  parsimonious;  "wearied  of  his  stay,  yet 
offended  at  his  departure:"  it  is  the  manner  of  the  world. 

5  "By  popular  delusion,"  remarks  he  with  a  gigantic 
calmness,  "illiterate  writers  will  rise  into  renown:"  it  is 
portion  of  the  History  of  English  literature;  a  perennial 
thing,  this  same  popular  delusion;  and  will — alter  the 
character  of  the  Language. 

10  Closely  connected  with  this  quality  of  Valor,  partly 
as  springing  from  it,  partly  as  protected  by  it,  are  the 
more  recognizable  qualities  of  Truthfulness  in  word 
and  thought,  and  Honesty  in  action.  There  is  a  reci- 
procity of  influence  here:  for  as  the  realizing  of  Truthful- 

15  ness  and  Honesty  is  the  Life-light  and  great  aim  of 
Valor,  so  without  Valor  they  cannot,  in  anywise,  be 
realized.  Now,  in  spite  of  all  practical  shortcomings, 
no  one  that  sees  into  the  significance  of  Johnson  will  say 
that  his  prime  object  was  not  Truth.    In  conversation, 

20  doubtless,  you  may  observe  him,  on  occasion,  fighting  as 
if  for  victory; — and  must  pardon  these  ebulliences  of  a 
careless  hour,  which  were  not  without  temptation  and 
provocation.  Remark  likewise  two  things:  that  such 
prize-arguings  were  ever  on  merely  superficial  debatable 

25  questions;  and  then  that  they  were  argued  generally 
by  the  fair  laws  of  battle  and  logic-fence,  by  one  cunning 
in  that  same.  If  their  purpose  was  excusable,  their  effect 
was  harmless,  perhaps  beneficial:  that  of  taming  noisy 
mediocrity,  and  showing  it  another  side  of  a  debatable 

30  matter;  to  see  both  sides  of  which  was,  for  the  first  time, 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  143 

to  see  the  Truth  of  it.  In  his  Writings  themselves,  are 
errors  enough,  crabbed  prepossessions  enough;  yet  these 
also  of  a  quite  extraneous  and  accidental  nature,  no- 
where a  willful  shutting  of  the  eyes  to  the  Truth.  Nay, 
is  there  not  everywhere  a  heartfelt  discernment,  singular,  5 
almost  admirable,  if  we  consider  through  what  confused 
conflicting  lights  and  hallucinations  it  had  to  be  attained, 
of  the  highest  everlasting  Truth,  and  beginning  of  all 
Truths:  this  namely,  that  man  is  ever,  and  even  in  the 
age  of  Wilkes  and  Whitfield,  a  Revelation  of  God  to  10 
man;  and  lives,  moves,  and  has  his  being  in  Truth  only; 
is  either  true,  or,  in  strict  speech,  is  not  at  all? 

Quite  spotless,  on  the  other  hand,  is  Johnson's  love 
of  Truth,  if  we  look  at  it  as  expressed  in  practice,  as 
what  we  have  named  Honesty  of  action.  "Clear  your  15 
mind  of  Cant;"  clear  it,  throw  Cant  utterly  away:  such 
was  his  emphatic,  repeated  precept;  and  did  not  he  him- 
self faithfully  conform  to  it  ?  The  Life  of  this  man  has 
been,  as  it  were,  turned  inside  out,  and  examined  with 
microscopes  by  friend  and  foe;  yet  was  there  no  Lie  20 
found  in  him.  His  Doings  and  Writings  are  not  shows 
but  performances;  you  may  weigh  them  in  the  balance, 
and  they  will  stand  weight.  Not  a  line,  not  a  sentence 
is  dishonestly  done,  is  other  than  it  pretends  to  be.  Alas! 
and  he  wrote  not  out  of  inward  inspiration,  but  to  earn  25 
his  wages:  and  with  that  grand  perennial  tide  of  "  popular 
delusion"  flowing  by;  in  whose  waters  he  nevertheless 
refused  to  fish,  to  whose  rich  oyster-beds  the  dive  was  too 
muddy  for  him.  Observe,  again,  with  what  innate 
hatred  of  Cant,  he  takes  for  himself,  and  offers  to  others,  30 


144  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

the  lowest  possible  view  of  his  business,  which  he  fol- 
lowed with  such  nobleness.  Motive  for  writing  he  had 
none,  as  he  often  said,  but  money;  and  yet  he  wrote  so. 
Into  the  region  of  Poetic  Art  he  indeed  never  rose;  there 
5  was  no  ideal  without  him  avowing  itself  in  his  work: 
the  nobler  was  that  unavowed  ideal  which  lay  within 
him,  and  commanded  saying,  Work  out  thy  Artisanship 
in  the  spirit  of  an  Artist!  They  who  talk  loudest  about 
the  dignity  of  Art,  and  fancy  that  they  too  are  Artistic 

io  guild-brethren,  and  of  the  Celestials, — let  them  consider 
well  what  manner  of  man  this  was,  who  felt  himself  to 
be  only  a  hired  day-laborer.  A  laborer  that  was  worthy 
of  his  hire;  that  has  labored  not  as  an  eye-servant,  but 
as  one  found  faithful!     Neither  was  Johnson  in  those 

15  days  perhaps  wholly  a  unique.  Time  was  when,  for 
money,  you  might  have  ware:  and  needed  not,  in  all  de- 
partments, in  that  of  the  Epic  Poem,  in  that  of  the 
Blacking-bottle,  to  rest  content  with  the  mere  persuasion 
that  you  had  ware.    It  was  a  happier  time.    But  as  yet 

20  the  seventh  Apocalyptic  Bladder  (of  Puffery)  had  not 
been  rent  open, — to  whirl  and  grind,  as  in  a  West-Indian 
Tornado,  all  earthly  trades  and  things  into  wreck,  and 
dust,  and  consummation, — and  regeneration.  Be  it 
quickly,  since  it  must  be! — 

25  That  mercy  can  dwell  only  with  Valor,  is  an  old  sen- 
timent or  proposition;  which  in  Johnson  again  receives 
confirmation.  Few  men  on  record  have  had  a  more 
merciful,  tenderly  affectionate  nature  than  old  Samuel. 
He  was  called  the  Bear;  and  did  indeed  too  often  look, 

;,o  and  roar,  like  one;  being  forced  to  it  in  his  own  defense: 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  145 

yet  within  that  shaggy  exterior  of  his  there  beat  a  heart 
warm  as  a  mother's,  soft  as  a  little  child's.    Nay  generally, 
his  very  roaring  was  but  the  anger  of  affection:  the  rage 
of  a  Bear,  if  you  will;  but  of  a  Bear  bereaved  of  her 
whelps.     Touch  his  Religion,  glance  at  the  Church  of    5 
England,  or  the  Divine  Right;  and  he  was  upon  you! 
These  things  were  his  Symbols  of  all  that  was  good  and 
precious  for  men;  his  very  Ark  of  the  Covenant:  whoso 
laid  hand  on  them  tore  asunder  his  heart  of  hearts.    Not 
out  of  hatred  to  the  opponent,  but  of  love  to  the  thing  10 
opposed,  did  Johnson  grow  cruel,  fiercely  contradictory: 
this  is  an  important  distinction;  never  to  be  forgotten 
in  our  censure  of  his  conversational  outrages.     But  ob- 
serve also  with  what  humanity,  what  openness  of  love, 
he  can  attach  himself  to  all  things:  to  a  blind  old  woman,  15 
to  a  Doctor  Levett,  to  a  cat  "Hodge."     "His  thoughts 
in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  were  frequently  employed  on 
his  deceased  friends;  he  often  muttered  these  or  such- 
like sentences:  'Poor  man!  and  then  he  died.'  "     How 
he  patiently  converts  his  poor  home  into  a  Lazaretto;  20 
endures,  for  long  years,  the  contradiction  of  the  miserable 
and  unreasonable;  with  him  unconnected,  save  that  they 
had  no  other  to  yield  them  refuge!    Generous  old  man! 
Worldly  possession  he  has  little;  yet  of  this  he  gives 
freely;  from  his  own  hard-earned  shilling,  the  halfpence  25 
for  the  poor,  that  "waited  his  coming  out,"  are  not  with- 
held: the   poor  "waited  the  coming  out"  of  one  not 
quite  so  poor!    A  Sterne  can  write  sentimentalities  on 
Dead  Asses:  Johnson  has  a  rough  voice;  but  he  finds 
the  wretched  Daughter  of  Vice  fallen  down  in  the  streets,  30 
Prose — 10 


146  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

carries  her  home  on  his  own  shoulders,  and  like  a  good 
Samaritan  gives  help  to  the  help-needing,  worthy  or 
unworthy.  Ought  not  Charity,  even  in  that  sense,  to 
cover  a  multitude  of  Sins?  No  Penny-a-week  Com- 
5  mittee-Lady,  no  manager  of  Soup-kitchens,  dancer  at 
Charity-balls,  was  this  rugged,  stern-visaged  man;  but 
where,  in  all  England,  could  there  have  been  found 
another  soul  so  full  of  Pity,  a  hand  so  heavenlike  boun- 
teous as  his?    The  widow's  mite,  we  know,  was  greater 

jo  than  all  the  other  gifts. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  divine  feeling  of  affection,  through- 
out manifested,  that  principally  attracts  us  towards 
Johnson.  A  true  brother  of  men  is  he;  and  filial  lover 
of  the  Earth;  who,  with  little  bright  spots  of  Attach- 

15  ment,  "where  lives  and  works  some  loved  one,"  has 
beautified  "  this  rough  solitary  earth  into  a  peopled  gar- 
den." Lichfield,  with  its  mostly  dull  and  limited  in- 
habitants, is  to  the  last  one  of  the  sunny  islets  for  him: 
Salve  magna  parens!     Or  read  those  Letters  on  his 

20  Mother's  death:  what  a  genuine  solemn  grief  and  pity 
lies  recorded  there;  a  looking  back  into  the  Past,  un- 
speakably mournful,  unspeakably  tender.  And  yet  calm, 
sublime;  for  he  must  now  act,  not  look:  his  venerated 
Mother  has  been  taken  from  him;  but  he  must  now  write 

25  a  Rasselas  to  defray  her  funeral.  Again,  in  this  little 
incident,  recorded  in  his  Book  of  Devotion,  are  not  the 
tones  of  sacred  Sorrow  and  Greatness  deeper  than  in 
many  a  blank  verse  Tragedy;  as,  indeed,  "the  fifth  act 
of  a  Tragedy"  (though  unrhymed)  does  "lie  in  every 

30  death-bed,  were  it  a  peasant's,  and  of  straw:" 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  147 

"  Sunday,  October  18,  1767.  Yesterday,  at  about  ten  in  the 
morning,  I  took  my  leave  forever  of  my  dear  old  friend,  Catherine 
Chambers,  who  came  to  live  with  my  mother  about  1724,  and  has 
been  but  little  parted  from  us  since.  She  buried  my  father,  my 
brother,  and  my  mother.      She  is  now  fifty-eight  years  old.  5 

"  I  desired  all  to  withdraw ;  then  told  her  that  we  were  to  part 
forever;  that  as  Christians,  we  should  part  with  prayer;  and  that 
I  would,  if  she  was  willing,  say  a  short  prayer  beside  her.  She 
expressed  great  desire  to  hear  me ;  and  held  up  her  poor  hands 
as  she  lay  in  bed,  with  great  fervor,  while  I  prayed  kneeling  by  10 
her.     .     .     . 

"  I  then  kissed  her.      She  told  me  that  to  part  was  the  greatest 
pain  she  had  ever  felt,  and  that  she  hoped  we  should  meet  again 
in  a  better  place.     I  expressed,  with  swelled  eyes  and  great  emo- 
tion of  tenderness,  the  same  hopes.     We  kissed  and  parted;  I  15 
humbly  hope,  to  meet  again,  and  to  part  no  more." 

Tears  trickling  down  the  granite  rock:  a  soft  well  of 
Pity  springs  within!  Still  more  tragical  is  this  other 
scene:  "Johnson  mentioned  that  he  could  not  in  general 
accuse  himself  of  having  been  an  undutiful  son.  '  Once,  20 
indeed,'  said  he,  'I  was  disobedient:  I  refused  to  attend 
my  father  to  Uttoxeter  market.  Pride  was  the  source 
of  that  refusal,  and  the  remembrance  of  it  is  painful. 
A  few  years  ago  I  desired  to  atone  for  this  fault.'  " — 
But  by  what  method  ?■ — What  method  was  now  possible  ?  25 
Hear  it;  the  words  are  again  given  as  his  own,  though 
here  evidently  by  a  less  capable  reporter: 

"  Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  abruptness  of  my  departure 
in  the  morning,  but  I  was  compelled  to  it  by  conscience.  Fifty 
years  ago,  madam,  on  this  day,  I  committed  a  breach  of  filial  30 
piety.  My  father  had  been  in  the  habit  of  attending  Uttoxeter 
market,  and  opening  a  stall  there  for  the  sale  of  his  Books.  Con- 
fined by  indisposition,  he  desired  me,  that  day,  to  go  and  attend 


148  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

the  stall  in  his  place.  My  pride  prevented  me ;  I  gave  my  father 
a  refusal. — And  now  to-day  I  have  been  to  Uttoxeter ;  I  went  into 
the  market  at  the  time  of  business,  uncovered  my  head,  and  stood 
with  it  bare,  for  an  hour,  on  the  spot  where  my  father's  stall  used 
5  to  stand.  In  contrition  I  stood,  and  I  hope  the  penance  was 
expiatory." 

Who  does  not  figure  to  himself  this  spectacle,  amid 
the  "rainy  weather,  and  the  sneers,"  or  wonder,  "of  the 
bystanders"?     The  memory  of  old  Michael  Johnson, 

10  rising  from  the  far  distance;  sad-beckoning  in  the  "moon- 
light of  memory:"  how  he  had  toiled  faithfully  hither  and 
thither;  patiently  among  the  lowest  of  the  low;  been 
buffeted  and  beaten  down,  yet  ever  risen  again,  ever 
tried  it  anew — And  oh!  when  the  wearied  old  man,  as 

15  Bookseller,  or  Hawker,  or  Tinker,  or  whatsoever  it  was 
that  Fate  had  reduced  him  to,  begged  help  of  thee  for 
one  day, — how  savage,  diabolic,  was  that  mean  Vanity, 
which  answered,  No!  He  sleeps  now;  after  life's  fitful 
fever,  he  sleeps:  but  thou,  O  Merciless,  how  now  wilt 

20  thou  still  the  sting  of  that  remembrance? — The  picture 
of  Samuel  Johnson  standing  bareheaded  in  the  market 
there,  is  one  of  the  grandest  and  saddest  we  can  paint. 
Repentance!  Repentance!  he  proclaims,  as  with  passion- 
ate sobs:  but  only  to  the  ear  of  Heaven,  if  Heaven  will 

25  give  him  audience:  the  earthly  ear  and  heart,  that  should 
have  heard  it,  are  now  closed,  unresponsive  forever. 

That  this  so  keen-loving,  soft-trembling  Affectionate- 
ness,  the  inmost  essence  of  his  being,  must  have  looked 
forth,  in  one  form  or  another,  through  Johnson's  whole 

30  character,  practical  and  intellectual,  modifying  both,  is 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  I49 

not  to  be  doubted.  Yet  through  what  singular  distor- 
tions and  superstitions,  moping  melancholies,  blind 
habits,  whims  about  "entering  with  the  right  foot,"  and 
"touching  every  post  as  he  walked  along:"  and  all  the 
other  mad  chaotic  lumber  of  a  brain  that,  with  sun-  5 
clear  intellect,  hovered  forever  on  the  verge  of  insanity, — 
must  that  same  inmost  essence  have  looked  forth;  un- 
recognizable to  all  but  the  most  observant!  Accordingly 
it  was  not  recognized;  Johnson  passed  not  for  a  fine 
nature,  but  for  a  dull,  almost  brutal  one.  Might  not,  10 
for  example,  the  first-fruit  of  such  a  Lovingness,  coupled 
with  his  quick  Insight,  have  been  expected  to  be  a  pe- 
culiarly courteous  demeanor  as  man  among  men?  In 
Johnson's  "Politeness,"  which  he  often,  to  the  wonder 
of  some,  asserted  to  be  great,  there  was  indeed  some-  15 
what  that  needed  explanation.  Nevertheless,  if  he  in- 
sisted always  on  handing  lady-visitors  to  their  carriage; 
though  with  the  certainty  of  collecting  a  mob  of  gazers 
in  Fleet  Street, — as  might  well  be,  the  beau  having  on,  by 
way  of  court  dress,  "his  rusty  brown  morning  suit,  a  20 
pair  of  old  shoes  for  slippers,  a  little  shriveled  wig  stick- 
ing on  the  top  of  his  head,  and  the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  and 
the  knees  of  his  breeches  hanging  loose:" — in  all  this 
we  can  see  the  spirit  of  true  Politeness,  only  shining 
through  a  strange  medium.  Thus  again,  in  his  apart-  25 
ments,  at  one  time,  there  were  unfortunately  no  chairs. 
"A  gentleman  who  frequently  visited  him  whilst  writ- 
ing his  Idlers,  constantly  found  him  at  his  desk,  sitting 
on  one  with  three  legs;  and  on  rising  from  it,  he  remarked 
that  Johnson  never  forgot  its  defects;  but  would  either  30 


150  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

hold  it  in  his  hand,  or  place  it  with  great  composure 
against  some  support;  taking  no  notice  of  its  imperfec- 
tion to  his  visitor," — who  meanwhile,  we  suppose,  sat 
upon  folios,  or  in  the  sartorial  fashion.  "It  was  remark- 
5  able  in  Johnson,"  continues  Miss  Reynolds  ("Renny 
dear"),  "that  no  external  circumstances  ever  prompted 
him  to  make  any  apology,  or  to  seem  even  sensible  of 
their  existence.  Whether  this  was  the  effect  of  philo- 
sophic pride,  or  of  some  partial  notion  of  his  respecting 

10  high-breeding,  is  doubtful."  That  it  was,  for  one  thing, 
the  effect  of  genuine  Politeness,  is  nowise  doubtful.  Not 
of  the  Pharisaical  Brummellean  Politeness,  which  would 
suffer  crucifixion  rather  than  ask  twice  for  soup:  but  the 
noble  universal  Politeness  of  a  man  that  knows  the  dig- 

15  nity  of  men,  and  feels  his  own;  such  as  may  be  seen  in 
the  patriarchal  bearing  of  an  Indian  Sachem;  such  as 
Johnson  himself  exhibited,  when  a  sudden  chance 
brought  him  into  dialogue  with  his  king.  To  us,  with 
our  view  of  the  man,  it  nowise  appears  "strange"  that 

20  he  should  have  boasted  himself  cunning  in  the  laws  of 
politeness;  nor  "stranger  still,"  habitually  attentive  to 
practice  them. 

More  legibly  is  this  influence  of  the  Loving  heart  to 
be  traced  in  his  intellectual  character.     What,  indeed, 

25  is  the  beginning  of  intellect,  the  first  inducement  to  the 
exercise  thereof,  but  attraction  towards  somewhat,  affec- 
tion for  it?  Thus,  too,  who  ever  saw,  or  will  see,  any 
true  talent,  not  to  speak  of  genius,  the  foundation  of 
which  is  not  goodness,  love?    From  Johnson's  strength 

30  of  Affection  we  deduce  many  of  his  intellectual  peculiari- 


BOS  WELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  151 

ties;  especially  that  threatening  array  of  perversions, 
known  under  the  name  of  "Johnson's  Prejudices." 
Looking  well  into  the  root  from  which  these  sprung,  we 
have  long  ceased  to  view  them  with  hostility,  can  pardon 
and  reverently  pity  them.  Consider  with  what  force  5 
early-imbibed  opinions  must  have  clung  to  a  soul  of  this 
Affection.  Those  evil-famed  Prejudices  of  his,  that 
Jacobitism,  Church-of-Englandism,  hatred  of  the  Scotch, 
belief  in  Witches,  and  such  like,  what  were  they  but  the 
ordinary  beliefs  of  well-doing,  well-meaning  provincial  10 
Englishmen  in  that  day?  First  gathered  by  his  Father's 
hearth;  round  the  kind  "  country  fires,"  of  native  Stafford- 
shire; they  grew  with  his  growth  and  strengthened  with 
his  strength:  they  were  hallowed  by  fondest  sacred 
recollections;  to  part  with  them  was  parting  with  his  15 
heart's  blood.  If  the  man  who  has  no  strength  of  Af- 
fection, strength  of  Belief,  have  no  strength  of  Preju- 
dice, let  him  thank  Heaven  for  it;  but  to  himself  take 
small  thanks. 

Melancholy  it  was,  indeed,  that  the  noble  Johnson  20 
could  not  work  himself  loose  from  these  adhesions;  that 
he  could  only  purify  them,  and  wear  them  with  some 
nobleness.  Yet  let  us  understand  how  they  grew  out 
from  the  very  center  of  his  being:  nay,  moreover,  how 
they  came  to  cohere  in  him  with  what  formed  the  busi-  25 
ness  and  worth  of  his  Life,  the  sum  of  his  whole  Spiritual 
Endeavor.  For  it  is  on  the  same  ground  that  he  became 
throughout  an  Edifier  and  Repairer,  not,  as  the  others 
of  his  make  were,  a  Puller-down;  that  in  an  age  of  uni- 
versal Skepticism,  England  was  still  to  produce  its  Be-  3° 


152  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

liever.     Mark,  too,  his  candor  even  here;  while  a  Dr. 

Adams,  with  placid  surprise,  asks,  "Have  we  not  evi- 
dence enough  of  the  soul's  immortality  ?"  Johnson 
answers,  "I  wish  for  more." 
5  But  the  truth  is,  in  Prejudice,  as  in  all  things,  John- 
son was  the  product  of  England;  one  of  those  good  yeo- 
men whose  limbs  were  made  in  England:  alas,  the  last 
of  such  Invincibles,  their  day  being  now  done!  His  cul- 
ture is  wholly  English;  that  not  of  a  Thinker  but  of  a 

10  "Scholar:"  his  interests  are  wholly  English;  he  sees  and 
knows  nothing  but  England;  he  is  the  John  Bull  of 
Spiritual  Europe:  let  him  live,  love  him,  as  he  was  and 
could  not  but  be!  Pitiable  it  is,  no  doubt,  that  a  Samuel 
Johnson  must  confute  Hume's  irreligious  Philosophy  by 

15  some  "story  from  a  Clergyman  of  the  Bishoprick  of 
Durham;"  should  see  nothing  in  the  great  Frederick 
but  "Voltaire's  lackey;"  in  Voltaire  himself  but  a  man 
acerrimi  ingenii,  paucarum  literarum;  in  Rousseau  but 
one  worthy  to  be  hanged;  and  in  the  universal,  long- 

20  prepared,  inevitable  Tendency  of  European  Thought 
but  a  green-sick  milkmaid's  crotchet  of,  for  variety's 
sake,  "milking  the  Bull."  Our  good,  dear  John!  Ob- 
serve, too,  what  it  is  that  he  sees  in  the  city  of  Paris:  no 
feeblest  glimpse  of  those  D'Alemberts  and  Diderots,  or 

25  of  the  strange  questionable  work  they  did;  solely  some 
Benedictine  Priests,  to  talk  kitchen-latin  with  them  about 
Editiones  Principes.  "  Monsheer  Nongtong  paw! " — Our 
dear,  foolish  John:  yet  is  there  a  lion's  heart  within 
him!    Pitiable  all  these  things  were,  we  say;  yet  nowise 

30  inexcusable;  nay,  as  basis  or  as  foil  to  much  else  that  was 


BOS  WELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  1 53 

in  Johnson,  almost  venerable.  Ought  we  not,  indeed,  to 
honor  England,  and  English  Institutions  and  Way  of 
Life,  that  they  could  still  equip  such  a  man;  could  fur- 
nish him  in  heart  and  head  to  be  a  Samuel  Johnson,  and 
yet  to  love  them,  and  unyieldingly  fight  for  them?  What  5 
truth  and  living  vigor  must  such  Institutions  once  have 
had,  when,  in  the  middle  of  the  Eighteenth  century,  there 
was  still  enough  left  in  them  for  this! 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that,  in  our  little  British  isle,  the 
two  grand  Antagonisms  of  Europe  should  have  stood  10 
embodied,  under  their  very  highest  concentration,  in  two 
men  produced  simultaneously  among  ourselves.  Samuel 
Johnson,  and  David  Hume,  as  was  observed,  were  chil- 
dren nearly  of  the  same  year :  through  life  they  were  spec- 
tators of  the  same  Life-movement;  often  inhabitants  of  15 
the  same  city.  Greater  contrast,  in  all  things,  between 
two  great  men,  could  not  be.  Hume,  well-born,  com- 
petently provided  for,  whole  in  body  and  mind,  of  his 
own  determination  forces  a  way  into  Literature:  Johnson, 
poor,  moonstruck,  diseased,  forlorn,  is  forced  into  it  20 
"with  the  bayonet  of  necessity  at  his  back."  And  what 
a  part  did  they  severally  play  there!  As  Johnson  became 
the  father  of  all  succeeding  Tories;  so  was  Hume  the 
father  of  all  succeeding  Whigs,  for  his  own  Jacobitism 
was  but  an  accident,  as  worthy  to  be  named  prejudice  as  25 
any  of  Johnson's.  Again,  if  Johnson's  culture  was  ex- 
clusively English;  Hume's  in  Scotland,  became  Euro- 
pean;—for  which  reason,  too,  we  find  his  influence  spread 
deeply  over  all  quarters  of  Europe,  traceable  deeply  in 
all  speculation,  French,  German,  as  well  as  domestic;  30 


154  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

while  Johnson's  name,  out  of  England,  is  hardly  any- 
where to  be  met  with.  In  spiritual  stature  they  are 
almost  equal;  both  great,  among  the  greatest;  yet  how 
unlike  in  likeness!  Hume  has  the  widest,  methodiz- 
5  ing,  comprehensive  eye;  Johnson  the  keenest  for  per- 
spicacity and  minute  detail:  so  had,  perhaps  chiefly,  their 
education  ordered  it.  Neither  of  the  two  rose  into 
Poetry;  yet  both  to  some  approximation  thereof:  Hume 
to  something  of  an  epic  clearness  and  method,  as  in  his 

io  delineation  of  the  Commonwealth  Wars;  Johnson  to 
many  a  deep  lyric  tone  of  plaintiveness  and  impetuous 
graceful  power,  scattered  over  his  fugitive  compositions. 
Both,  rather  to  the  general  surprise,  had  a  certain  rugged 
humor  shining  through  their  earnestness:  the  indication, 

15  indeed,  that  they  were  earnest  men,  and  had  subdued 
their  wild  world  into  a  kind  of  temporary  home  and  sale 
dwelling.  Both  were,  by  principle  and  habit,  Stoics: 
yet  Johnson  with  the  greater  merit,  for  he  alone  had  very 
much  to  triumph  over;  farther,  he  alone  ennobled  his 

20  Stoicism  into  Devotion.  To  Johnson  Life  was  as  a 
Prison,  to  be  endured  with  heroic  faith;  to  Hume  it  was 
little  more  than  a  foolish  Bartholomew-Fair  Show-booth, 
with  the  foolish  crowdings  and  elbowings  of  which  it 
was  not  worth  while  to  quarrel;  the  whole  would  break 

25  up,  and  be  at  liberty,  so  soon.  Both  realized  the  highest 
task  of  manhood,  that  of  living  like  men;  each  died  not 
unfitly,  in  his  way:  Hume  as  one,  with  factitious,  half- 
false  gayety,  taking  leave  of  what  was  itself  wholly  but 
a  Lie:  Johnson  as  one,  with  awe-struck,  yet  resolute  and 

30  piously  expectant  heart,  taking  leave  of  a  Reality,  to 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  155 

enter  a  Reality  still  higher.  Johnson  had  the  harder 
problem  of  it,  from  first  to  last:  whether,  with  some  hesi- 
tation, we  can  admit  that  he  was  intrinsically  the  better- 
gifted, — may  remain  undecided. 

These  two  men  now  rest;  the  one  in  Westminster    5 
Abbey  here;  the  other  in  the  Calton  Hill  Churchyard  of 
Edinburgh.     Through  Life  they  did  not  meet:  as  con- 
trasts, "like  in  unlike,"  love  each  other;  so  might  they 
two  have  loved,  and  communed  kindly, — had  not  the 
terrestrial  dross  and  darkness  that  was  in  them  with-  10 
stood!    One  day,  their  spirits,  what  Truth  was  in  each, 
will  be  found  working,  living  in  harmony  and  free  union, 
even  here  below.    They  were  the  two  half-men  of  their 
time:  whoso  should  combine  the  intrepid  Candor  and 
decisive  scientific  Clearness  of  Hume,  with  the  Reverence,  15 
the  Love,  and  devout  Humility  of  Johnson,  were  the 
whole  man  of  a  new  time.    Till  such  whole  man  arrive  for 
us,  and  the  distracted  time  admit  of  such,  might  the 
Heavens  but  bless  poor  England  with  half-men  worthy 
to  tie  the  shoe-latchets  of  these,  resembling  these  even  20 
from  afar!     Be  both  attentively  regarded,  let  the  true 
Effort  of  both  prosper;— and  for  the  present,  both  take 
our  affectionate  farewell! 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

[Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  was  born  in  1800  at  Rothley 
Temple,  Leicestershire.  He  was  a  child  of  remarkable  precocity 
both  in  literature  and  in  English  composition.  In  1818  he  entered 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  twice  won  first  honors  in 
the  English  prize-poem  contest.  In  1822  he  was  graduated  and 
two  years  later  was  chosen  a  fellow  of  Trinity,  when  he  began  to 
devote  himself  to  literature.  For  a  short  time  he  contributed 
articles  to  Knighfs  Qjiarlerly  Magazine.  His  famous  essay  on 
Milton  appeared  in  1825,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  the  great 
Whig  periodical  to  which  Macaulay  was  a  prominent  contributor 
for  the  next  twenty  years.  In  1830  he  entered  Parliament  and 
ardently  shared  in  the  reform  movement.  From  1834  to  1838  he 
was  in  India  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme  Council.  On  his  re- 
turn to  England  he  again  entered  Parliament  and  for  a  time  was 
active  in  public  affairs.  He  was  raised  to  the  peerage  in  1S57. 
His  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  appeared  in  1842,  and  the  next  year 
three  volumes  of  Essays.  The  work  to  which  Macaulay's  later 
years  were  devoted  was  the  History  of  England  from  the  Accession 
of  fames  II.  Two  volumes  were  published  in  1848,  and  two  more 
in  1855.  Volume  five  of  the  series  was  published  posthumously. 
Macaulay  died  in  1859.] 

Macaulay  never  regarded  himself  as  a  critic  of  litera- 
ture in  the  special  sense.  He  had  not  the  mind  of  a 
critic,  the  judicial  temper,  the  detachment,  the  serious, 
philosophical  view  of  life.  Nor  had  he  a  method  of 
criticism,  as  Carlyle,  Arnold,  and  Pater  had.  His  am- 
bition as  a  writer  and  his  greatest  labor  were  given  to 
his  History,  upon  which  he  confidently  invited  the  judg- 
ment of  posterity.    His  essays,  on  the  contrary,  he  wrote 

156 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  157 

with  no  thought  of  a  generation  beyond  his  own.  "  They 
are  not  expected  to  be  highly  finished,"  he  said  of  them. 
"Their  natural  life  is  only  six  weeks."  His  attitude  was 
always  that  of  a  reviewer;  but  Macaulay  was  not  an  ordi- 
nary reviewer  because  he  was  not  a  commonplace  man. 
He  possessed  great  gifts  supported  by  a  temperament 
that  insured  popularity.  Together  with  an  amazing 
range  of  reading,  a  magical  memory,  and  great  industry, 
he  had  a  sterling,  robust  character,  manly  common  sense, 
and  limitless  confidence  in  his  own  opinions  and  powers. 
These  characteristics  found  expression  in  a  style  of  in- 
comparable effectiveness,  if  style  be  regarded  as  a  me- 
dium of  immediate  appeal.  Essays,  therefore,  which  were 
thought  of  as  fugitive,  have  survived  to  the  present  time 
with  scarcely  diminished  vitality. 

The  essay  on  Byron  is  typical  of  Macaulay's  method 
of  dealing  with  a  literary  subject.  The  obvious,  super- 
ficial aspects  of  Byron  and  his  poetry  are  presented, — 
aspects  which  indeed  are  not  the  less  true  because  they 
are  apparent.  It  is  the  authentic  Byronic  portrait  as  it 
was  imagined  by  the  British  public  of  Macaulay's  day. 
There  is  no  effort  to  see  below  the  surface,  to  interrogate 
causes,  to  reach  final  estimates  according  to  the  ideals 
of  serious  criticism. 

Macaulay's  manner  is  dogmatic.  It  is  the  manner  of 
the  school  of  Jeffrey,  who  magisterially  decided  things 
literary  in  terms  of  his  own  taste  and  temperament. 
When  Macaulay  discusses  an  author  or  his  work,  he 
generally  begins  with  an  a  priori  dictum  to  which  his 
facts  must  apply.  This  is  the  method  in  the  Milton,  the 
earliest  of  his  literary  essays;  and  it  is  the  method  also 
in  the  Leigh  Hunt,  and  the  Madame  D'Arblay  which  are 
among  the  last.  Byron's  life  is  presented  on  the  basis 
that  it  "was  a  strange  union  of  opposite  extremes"; 
while  his  poetry  is  examined  from  the  proposition  that 
"he  never  wrote  without  some  reference,  direct  or  in- 


158  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

direct,  to  himself."    Such  a  method  has  obvious  merits. 
It  is  direct,  positive,  unequivocal;  it  leaves  the  reader 
with  clear,  easily  remembered  impressions;  in  matters  of 
judgment  and  taste  it  decides  upon  a  basis  of  reason  and 
common  sense.    But  it  has  also  obvious  defects.    It  deals 
in  half-truths  and  leads  to  assertions  that  require  quali- 
fication; it  treats  in  an  analytic,  sweeping  fashion  sub- 
jects that  demand  careful  sifting  and  judicious  handling. 
Macaulay's  attention  to  broad  effects  and  neglect  of 
nice  distinctions  are  nowhere  more  marked  than  in  his 
style.    For  this  reason  its  special  qualities  do  not  appear 
in  the  diction,  which  is  indifferent  to  elusive  connotations. 
One  seldom  finds  in  his  essays  the  eclectic  word  as  in 
Pater,  or  the  luminous  phrase  as  in  Carlyle.     It  is  in 
sentence  structure,  manner  of  grouping  and  accumulat- 
ing details,  and  in  swift,  bold  movement  that  Macaulay's 
distinction  as  a  stylist  is  to  be  found.    The  frequency  of 
the  balanced  and  parallel  forms  in  phrase,  sentence,  or 
paragraph,  indicates  the  shape  in  which  he  saw  his 
material.    Mention  of  a  name  or  a  quality  suggested  to 
Macaulay  scores  of  comparisons  and  contrasts.     "Let 
me  give  a  few  instances,"  he  says:  "Every  school  boy 
knows," — and  thereupon  he  floods  his  page  with  instance 
upon  instance.     This  manner  when  carried  to  excess 
suffers  from  hardness,   monotony,   and   over-emphasis. 
Nevertheless  Macaulay's  style,  even  in  his  essays  where  it 
is  most  exposed  to  censure,  is  rarely  ineffective,  because 
it  always  contains  the  vitalizing  virtues  of  clearness,  force, 
and  sincerity.    Though  his  thought  is  never  deep,  it  is 
never  turbid;  and  in  all  his  life  he  never  wflote  a  languid 
or  an  insincere  sentence.    This  is  why  his  style  has  won 
for  him  a  popularity  as  a  serious  writer  unsurpassed  in 
his  own  or  in  later  generations. 


LIFE   OF  LORD   BYRON  1 59 


MOORE'S   LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON 

We  have  read  this  book  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Considered  merely  as  a  composition,  it  deserves  to  be 
classed  among  the  best  specimens  of  English  prose  which 
our  age  has  produced.  It  contains,  indeed,  no  single 
passage  equal  to  two  or  three  which  we  could  select  from  5 
the  Life  oj  Sheridan.  But,  as  a  whole,  it  is  immeasurably 
superior  to  that  work.  The  style  is  agreeable,  clear,  and 
manly,  and  when  it  rises  into  eloquence,  rises  without 
effort  or  ostentation.  Nor  is  the  matter  inferior  to  the 
manner.  It  would  be  difficult  to  name  a  book  which  ex-  10 
hibits  more  kindness,  fairness,  and  modesty.  It  has  evi- 
dently been  written,  not  for  the  purpose  of  showing,  what, 
however,  it  often  shows,  how  well  its  author  can  write, 
but  for  the  purpose  of  vindicating,  as  far  as  truth  will 
permit,  the  memory  of  a  celebrated  man  who  can  no  15 
longer  vindicate  himself.  Mr.  Moore  never  thrusts  him- 
self between  Lord  Byron  and  the  public.  With  the 
strongest  temptations  to  egotism,  he  has  said  no  more 
about  himself  than  the  subject  absolutely  required. 

A  great  part,  indeed  the  greater  part,  of  these  volumes  20 
consists  of  extracts  from  the  Letters  and  Journals  0}  Lord 
Byron;  and  it  is  difficult  to  speak  too  highly  of  the  skill 
which  has  been  shown  in  the  selection  and  arrangement. 
We  will  not  say  that  we  have  not  occasionally  remarked 
in  these  two  large  quartos  an  anecdote  which  should  have  25 
been  omitted,  a  letter  which  should  have  been  suppressed, 
a  name  which  should  have  been  concealed  by  asterisks, 


160  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

or  asterisks  which  do  not  answer  the  purpose  of  conceal- 
ing the  name.  But  it  is  impossible,  on  a  general  survey, 
to  deny  that  the  task  has  been  executed  with  great  judg- 
ment and  great  humanity.  When  we  consider  the  life 
5  which  Lord  Byron  had  led,  his  petulance,  his  irritability, 
and  his  communicativeness,  we  cannot  but  admire  the 
dexterity  with  which  Mr.  Moore  has  contrived  to  ex- 
hibit so  much  of  the  character  and  opinions  of  his  friend, 
with  so  little  pain  to  the  feelings  of  the  living. 

i°  The  extracts  from  the  journals  and  correspondence  of 
Lord  Byron  are  in  the  highest  degree  valuable,  not  merely 
on  account  of  the  information  which  they  contain  re- 
specting the  distinguished  man  by  whom  they  were 
written,  but  on  account  also  of  their  rare  merit  as  com- 

15  positions.  The  Letters,  at  least  those  which  were  sent 
from  Italy,  are  among  the  best  in  our  language.  They 
are  less  affected  than  those  of  Pope  and  Walpole;  they 
have  more  matter  in  them  than  those  of  Cowper.  Know- 
ing that  many  of  them  were  not  written  merely  for  the 

20  person  to  whom  they  were  directed,  but  were  general 
epistles,  meant  to  be  read  by  a  large  circle,  we  expected 
to  find  them  clever  and  spirited,  but  deficient  in  ease. 
We  looked  with  vigilance  for  instances  of  stiffness  in  the 
language  and  awkardness  in  the  transitions.     We  have 

25  been  agreeably  disappointed;  and  we  must  confess  that, 
if  the  epistolary  style  of  Lord  Byron  was  artificial,  it 
was  a  rare  and  admirable  instance  of  that  highest  art 
which  cannot  be  distinguished  from  nature. 

Of  the  deep  and  painful  interest  which  this  book  ex- 

30  cites  no  abstract  can  give  a  just  notion.    So  sad  and  dark 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  l6l 

a  story  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  any  work  of  fiction;  and 
we  are  little  disposed  to  envy  the  moralist  who  can  read 
it  without  being  softened. 

The  pretty  fable  by  which  the  Duchess  of  Orleans  il- 
lustrated the  character  of  her  son  the  Regent  might,  with    5 
little  change,  be  applied  to  Byron.    All  the  fairies,  save 
one,  had  been  bidden  to  his  cradle.    All  the  gossips  had 
been  profuse  of  their  gifts.    One  had  bestowed  nobility, 
another  genius,  a  third  beauty.     The  malignant  elf  who 
had  been  uninvited  came  last,  and,  unable  to  reverse  10 
what  her  sisters  had  done  for  their  favorite,  had  mixed 
up  a  curse  with  every  blessing.     In  the  rank  of  Lord 
Byron,  in  his  understanding,  in  his  character,  in  his  very 
person,  there  was  a  strange  union  of  opposite  extremes. 
He  was  born  to  all  that  men  covet  and  admire.    But  in  15 
every  one  of  those  eminent  advantages  which  he  pos- 
sessed over  others  was  mingled  something  of  misery  and 
debasement.    He  was  sprung  from  a  house,  ancient  in- 
deed and  noble,  but  degraded  and  impoverished  by  a 
series  of  crimes  and  follies  which  had  attained  a  scan-  20 
dalous  publicity.    The  kinsman  whom  he  succeeded  had 
died  poor,  and,  but  for  merciful  judges,  would  have  died 
upon  the  gallows.    The  young  peer  had  great  intellectual 
powers;  yet  there  was  an  unsound  part  in  his  mind. 
He  had  naturally  a  generous  and  feeling  heart:  but  his  25 
temper  was  wayward  and  irritable.     He  had  a  head 
which  statuaries  loved  to  copy,  and  a  foot  the  deformity 
of  which  the  beggars  in  the  streets  mimicked.     Dis- 
tinguished at  once  by  the  strength  and  by  the  weakness 
of  his  intellect,  affectionate  yet  perverse,  a  poor  lord,  30 
Prose — 1 1 


1 62  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

and  a  handsome  cripple,  he  required,  if  ever  man  re- 
quired, the  firmest  and  the  most  judicious  training. 
But,  capriciously  as  nature  had  dealt  with  him,  the  parent 
to  whom  the  office  of  forming  his  character  was  intrusted 
5  was  more  capricious  still.  She  passed  from  paroxysms 
of  rage  to  paroxysms  of  tenderness.  At  one  time  she 
stifled  him  with  her  caresses:  at  another  time  she  in- 
sulted his  deformity.  He  came  into  the  world;  and  the 
world  treated  him  as  his  mother  had  treated  him,  some- 

10  times  with  fondness,  sometimes  with  cruelty,  never  with 
justice.  It  indulged  him  without  discrimination,  and 
punished  him  without  discrimination.  He  was  truly  a 
spoiled  child,  not  merely  the  spoiled  child  of  his  parent, 
but  the  spoiled  child  of  nature,  the  spoiled  child  of  for- 

15  tune,  the  spoiled  child  of  fame,  the  spoiled  child  of 
society.  His  first  poems  were  received  with  a  contempt 
which,  feeble  as  they  were,  they  did  not  absolutely  de- 
serve. The  poem  which  he  published  on  his  return  from 
his  travels  was,  on  the  other  hand,   extolled  far  above 

20  its  merit.  At  twenty-four  he  found  himself  on  the  highest 
pinnacle  of  literary  fame,  with  Scott,  Wordsworth, 
Southey,  and  a  crowd  of  other  distinguished  writers  be- 
neath his  feet.  There  is  scarcely  an  instance  in  history 
of  so  sudden  a  rise  to  so  dizzy  an  eminence. 

25  Everything  that  could  stimulate,  and  everything  that 
could  gratify  the  strongest  propensities  of  our  nature,  the 
gaze  of  a  hundred  drawing-rooms,  the  acclamations  of 
the  whole  nation,  the  applause  of  applauded  men,  the 
love  of  lovely  women,  all  this  world  and  the  glory  of  it 

.30  were  at  once  offered  to  a  youth  to  whom  nature  had 


LIFE  OF   LORD   BYRON  1 63 

given  violent  passions,  and  to  whom  education  had  never 
taught  to  control  them.  He  lived  as  many  men  live  who 
have  no  similar  excuse  to  plead  for  their  faults.  But  his 
countrymen  and  his  countrywomen  would  love  him  and 
admire  him.  They  were  resolved  to  see  in  his  excesses  5 
only  the  flash  and  outbreak  of  that  same  fiery  mind 
which  glowed  in  his  poetry.  He  attacked  religion;  yet 
in  religious  circles  his  name  was  mentioned  with  fond- 
ness, and  in  many  religious  publications  his  works  were 
censured  with  singular  tenderness.  He  lampooned  the  10 
Prince  Regent;  yet  he  could  not  alienate  the  Tories. 
Everything,  it  seemed,  was  to  be  forgiven  to  youth,  rank, 
and  genius. 

Then  came  the  reaction.  Society,  capricious  in  its 
indignation  as  it  had  been  capricious  in  its  fondness,  flew  1 5 
into  a  rage  with  its  forward  and  petted  darling.  He  had 
been  worshiped  with  an  irrational  idolatry.  He  was 
persecuted  with  an  irrational  fury.  Much  has  been 
written  about  those  unhappy  domestic  occurrences  which 
.decided  the  fate  of  his  life.  Yet  nothing  is,  nothing  ever  20 
was,  positively  known  to  the  public,  but  this,  that  he 
quarreled  with  his  lady,  and  that  she  refused  to  live 
with  him.  There  have  been  hints  in  abundance,  and 
shrugs  and  shakings  of  the  head,  and  "Well,  well,  we 
know,"  and  "We  could  an  if  we  would,"  and  "If  we  25 
list  to  speak,"  and  "There  be  that  might  an  they  list." 
But  we  are  not  aware  that  there  is  before  the  world  sub- 
stantiated by  credible,  or  even  by  tangible  evidence,  a 
single  fact  indicating  that  Lord  Byron  was  more  to  blame 
than  any  other  man  who  is  on  bad  terms  with  his  wife.  30 


J 


164  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

The  professional  men  whom  Lady  Byron  consulted  were 
undoubtedly  of  opinion  that  she  ought  not  to  live  with 
her  husband.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  they 
formed  that  opinion  without  hearing  both  sides.  We 
5  do  not  say,  we  do  not  mean  to  insinuate,  that  Lady 
Byron  was  in  any  respect  to  blame.  We  think  that 
those  who  condemn  her  on  the  evidence  which  is  now 
before  the  public  are  as  rash  as  those  who  condemn  her 
husband.     We  will  not  pronounce  any  judgment,  we 

10  cannot,  even  in  our  own  minds,  form  any  judgment,  on 
a  transaction  which  is  so  imperfectly  known  to  us.  It 
would  have  been  well  if,  at  the  time  of  the  separation, 
all  those  who  knew  as  little  about  the  matter  then  as  we 
know  about  it  now  had  shown  the  forbearance  which, 

15  under  such  circumstances,  is  but  common  justice. 

We  know  no  spectacle  so  ridicuous  as  the  British  pub- 
lic in  one  of  its  periodical  fits  of  morality.  In  general, 
elopements,  divorces,  and  family  quarrels,  pass  with 
little  notice.    We  read  the  scandal,  -talk  about  it  for  a 

20  day,  and  forget  it.  But  once  in  six  or  seven  years  our 
virtue  becomes  outrageous.  We  cannot  suffer  the  laws 
of  religion  and  decency  to  be  violated.  We  must  make 
a  stand  against  vice.  We  must  teach  libertines  that  the 
English  people  appreciate  the  importance  of  domestic 

25  ties.  Accordingly  some  unfortunate  man,  in  no  respect 
more  depraved  than  hundreds  whose  offenses  have  been 
treated  with  lenity,  is  singled  out  as  an  expiatory  sacrifice. 
If  he  has  children,  they  are  to  be  taken  from  him.  If 
he  has  a  profession,  he  is  to  be  driven  from  it.     He  is 

30  cut  by  the  higher  orders,  and  hissed  by  the  lower.    He 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  1 65 

is,  in  truth,  a  sort  of  whipping-boy,  by  whose  vicarious 
agonies  all  the  other  transgressors  of  the  same  class  are, 
it  is  supposed,  sufficiently  chastised.  We  reflect  very 
complacently  on  our  own  severity,  and  compare  with 
great  pride  the  high  standard  of  morals  established  in  5 
England  with  the  Parisian  laxity.  At  length  our  anger 
is  satiated.  Our  victim  is  ruined  and  broken-hearted. 
And  our  virtue  goes  quietly  to  sleep  for  seven  years  more. 
It  is  clear  that  those  vices  which  destroy  domestic  hap- 
piness ought  to  be  as  much  as  possible  repressed.  It  is  10 
equally  clear  that  they  cannot  be  repressed  by  penal  legis- 
lation. It  is  therefore  right  and  desirable  that  public 
opinion  should  be  directed  against  them.  But  it  should 
be  directed  against  them  uniformly,  steadily,  and  tem- 
perately, not  by  sudden  fits  and  starts.  There  should  15 
be  one  weight  and  one  measure.  Decimation  is  always  an 
objectionable  mode  of  punishment.  It  is  the  resource 
of  judges  too  indolent  and  hasty  to  investigate  facts  and 
to  discriminate  nicely  between  shades  of  guilt.  It  is  an 
irrational  practice,  even  when  adopted  by  military  20 
tribunals.  When  adopted  by  the  tribunal  of  public 
opinion,  it  is  infinitely  more  irrational.  It  is  good  that 
a  certain  portion  of  disgrace  should  constantly  attend 
on  certain  bad  actions.  But  it  is  not  good  that  the 
offenders  should  merely  have  to  stand  the  risks  of  a  25 
lottery  of  infamy,  that  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred 
should  escape,  and  that  the  hundredth,  perhaps  the  most 
innocent  of  the  hundred,  should  pay  for  all.  We  re- 
member to  have  seen  a  mob  assembled  in  Lincoln's 
Inn  to  hoot  a  gentleman  against  whom  the  most  oppres-  30 


1 66  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

sive  proceeding  known  to  the  English  law  was  then  in 
progress.  He  was  hooted  because  lie  had  been  an  un- 
faithful husband,  as  if  some  of  the  most  popular  men  of 
the  age,  Lord  Nelson  for  example,  had  not  been  un- 
5  faithful  husbands.  We  remember  a  still  stronger  case. 
Will  posterity  believe  that,  in  an  age  in  which  men  whose 
gallantries  were  universally  known,  and  had  been  legally 
proved,  filled  some  of  the  highest  offices  in  the  state 
and  in  the  army,  presided  at  the  meetings  of  religious 

10  and  benevolent  institutions,  were  the  delight  of  every 
society,  and  the  favorites  of  the  multitude,  a  crowd  of 
moralists  went  to  the  theater,  in  order  to  pelt  a  poor  actor 
for  disturbing  the  conjugal  felicity  of  an  alderman? 
What  there  was  in  the  circumstances  either  of  the  of- 

15  fender  or  of  the  sufferer  to  vindicate  the  zeal  of  the 
audience,  we  could  never  conceive.  It  has  never  been 
supposed  that  the  situation  of  an  actor  is  peculiarly 
favorable  to  the  rigid  virtues,  or  that  an  alderman  enjoys 
any  special  immunity  from  injuries  such  as  that  which 

20  on  this  occasion  roused  the  anger  of  the  public.  But 
such  is  the  justice  of  mankind. 

In  these  cases  the  punishments  was  excessive;  but  the 
offense  was  known  and  proved.  The  case  of  Lord  By- 
ron was  harder.    True  Jedwood  justice  was  dealt  out  to 

25  him.  First  came  the  execution,  then  the  investigation, 
and  last  of  all,  or  rather  not  at  all,  the  accusation.  The 
public,  without  knowing  anything  whatever  about  the 
transactions  in  his  family,  flew  into  a  violent  passion 
with  him,  and  proceeded  to  invent  stories  which  might 

30  justify  its  anger.    Ten  or  twenty  different  accounts  of  the 


LIFE  OF   LORD   BYRON  1 67 

separation,  inconsistent  with  each  other,  with  them- 
selves, and  with  common  sense,  circulated  at  the  same 
time.  What  evidence  there  might  be  for  any  one  of  these, 
the  virtuous  people  who  repeated  them  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  For  in  fact  these  stories  were  not  the  causes,  but  5 
the  effects  of  the  public  indignation.  They  resembled 
those  loathsome  slanders  which  Lewis  Goldsmith,  and 
other  abject  libelers  of  the  same  class,  were  in  the  habit 
of  publishing  about  Bonaparte;  such  as  that  he  poisoned 
a  girl  with  arsenic  when  he  was  at  the  military  school,  10 
that  he  hired  a  grenadier  to  shoot  Dessaix  at  Marengo, 
that  he  filled  St.  Cloud  with  all  the  pollutions  of  Capreae. 
There  was  a  time  when  anecdotes  like  these  obtained 
some  credence  from  persons  who,  hating  the  French 
emperor  without  knowing  why,  were  eager  to  believe  any-  15 
thing  which  might  justify  their  hatred.  Lord  Byron 
fared  in  the  same  way.  His  countrymen  were  in  a  bad 
humor  with  him.  His  writings  and  his  character  had 
lost  the  charm  of  novelty.  He  had  been  guilty  of  the 
offense  which,  of  all  offenses,  is  punished  most  severely;  20 
he  had  been  over-praised;  he  had  excited  too  warm  an 
interest;  and  the  public,  with  its  usual  justice,  chastised 
him  for  its  own  folly.  The  attachments  of  the  multitude 
bear  no  small  resemblance  to  those  of  the  wanton  en- 
chantress in  the  Arabian  Tales,  who,  when  the  forty  25 
days  of  her  fondness  were  over,  was  not  content  with 
dismissing  her  lovers,  but  condemned  them  to  expiate, 
in  loathsome  shapes  and  under  cruel  penances,  the  crime 
of  having  once  pleased  her  too  well. 

The  obloquy  which  Byron  had  to  endure  was  such  as  30 


1 68  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

might  well  have  shaken  a  more  constant  mind.  The 
newspapers  were  filled  with  lampoons.  The  theaters 
shook  with  execrations.  He  was  excluded  from  circles 
where  he  had  lately  been  the  observed  of  all  observers. 
5  All  those  creeping  things  that  riot  in  the  decay  of  nobler 
natures  hastened  to  their  repast;  and  they  were  right; 
they  did  after  their  kind.  It  is  not  every  day  that  the 
savage  envy  of  aspiring  dunces  is  gratified  by  the  agonies 
of  such  a  spirit,  and  the  degradation  of  such  a  name. 

io  The  unhappy  man  left  his  country  for  ever.  The  howl 
of  contumely  followed  him  across  the  sea,  up  the  Rhine, 
over  the  Alps;  it  gradually  waxed  fainter;  it  died  away; 
those  who  had  raised  it  began  to  ask  each  other,  what, 
after  all,  was  the  matter  about  which  they  had  been  so 

15  clamorous,  and  wished  to  invite  back  the  criminal  whom 
they  had  just  chased  from  them.  His  poetry  became  more 
popular  than  it  had  ever  been;  and  his  complaints  were 
read  with  tears  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  who 
had  never  seen  his  face. 

20  He  had  fixed  his  home  on  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic, 
in  the  most  picturesque  and  interesting  of  cities,  beneath 
the  brightest  of  skies  and  by  the  brightest  of  seas.  Cen- 
soriousness  was  not  the  vice  of  the  neighbors  whom  he 
had  chosen.     They  were  a  race  corrupted  by  a  bad 

25  government  and  a  bad  religion,  long  renowned  for  skill 
in  the  arts  of  voluptuousness,  and  tolerant  of  all  the 
caprices  of  sensuality.  From  the  public  opinion  of  the 
country  of  his  adoption,  he  had  nothing  to  dread.  With 
the  public  opinion  of  the  country  of  his  birth  he  was  at 

30  open  war.    He  plunged  into  wild  and  desperate  excesses, 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  1 69 

ennobled  by  no  generous  or  tender  sentiment.  From  his 
Venetian  harem  he  sent  forth  volume  after  volume,  full 
of  eloquence,  of  wit,  of  pathos,  of  ribaldry,  and  of  bitter 
disdain.  His  health  sank  under  the  effects  of  his  in- 
temperance. His  hair  turned  gray.  His  food  ceased  5 
to  nourish  him.  A  hectic  fever  withered  him  up.  It 
seemed  that  his  body  and  mind  were  about  to  perish  to- 
gether. 

From  this  wretched  degradation  he  was  in  some 
measure  rescued  by  a  connection,  culpable  indeed,  yet  10 
such  as,  if  it  were  judged  by  the  standard  of  morality 
established  in  the  country  where  he  lived,  might  be  called 
virtuous.  But  an  imagination  polluted  by  vice,  a  temper 
embittered  by  misfortune,  and  a  frame  habituated  to 
the  fatal  excitement  of  intoxication,  prevented  him  from  15 
fully  enjoying  the  happiness  which  he  might  have  de- 
rived from  the  purest  and  most  tranquil  of  his  many 
attachments.  Midnight  draughts  of  ardent  spirits  and 
Rhenish  wines  had  begun  to  work  the  ruin  of  his  fine 
intellect.  His  verse  lost  much  of  the  energy  and  con-  20 
densation  which  had  distinguished  it.  But  he  would  not 
resign,  without  a  struggle,  the  empire  which  he  had  ex- 
ercised over  the  men  of  his  generation.  A  new  dream  of 
ambition  arose  before  him;  to  be  the  chief  of  a  literary 
party;  to  be  the  great  mover  of  an  intellectual  revolu-  25 
tion;  to  guide  the  public  mind  of  England  from  his 
Italian  retreat,  as  Voltaire  had  guided  the  public  mind 
of  France  from  the  villa  of  Ferney.  With  this  hope,  as 
it  should  seem,  he  established  the  Liberal.  But,  power- 
fully as  he  had  affected  the  imaginations  of  his  contem-  30 


I/O  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

poraries,  he  mistook  his  own  powers  if  he  hoped  to  direct 
their  opinions;  and  he  still  more  grossly  mistook  his  own 
disposition,  if  he  thought  that  he  could  long  act  in  con- 
cert with  other  men  of  letters.  The  plan  failed,  and 
5  failed  ignominiously.  Angry  with  himself,  angry  with 
his  coadjutors,  he  relinquished  it,  and  turned  to  another 
project,  the  last  and  noblest  of  his  life. 

A  nation,  once  the  first  among  the  nations,  preeminent 
in  knowledge,  preeminent  in  military  glory,  the  cradle 

10  of  philosophy,  of  eloquence,  and  of  the  fine  arts,  had 
been  for  ages  bowed  down  under  a  cruel  yoke.  All  the 
vices  which  oppression  generates,  the  abject  vices  which 
it  generates  in  those  who  submit  to  it,  the  ferocious  vices 
which  it  generates  in  those  who  struggle  against  it,  had 

15  deformed  the  character  of  that  miserable  race.  The 
valor  which  had  won  the  great  battle  of  human  civiliza- 
tion, which  had  saved  Europe,  which  had  subjugated 
Asia,  lingered  only  among  pirates  and  robbers.  The 
ingenuity,  once  so  conspicuously  displayed  in  every  de- 

20  partment  of  physical  and  moral  science,  had  been  de- 
praved into  a  timid  and  servile  cunning.  On  a  sudden 
this  degraded  people  had  risen  on  their  oppressors. 
Discountenanced  or  betrayed  by  the  surrounding  poten- 
tates, they  had  found  in  themselves  something  of  that 

25  which  might  well  supply  the  place  of  all  foreign  assist- 
ance, something  of  the  energy  of  their  fathers. 

As  a  man  of  letters,  Lord  Byron  could  not  but  be  inter- 
ested in  the  event  of  this  contest.  His  political  opinions, 
though,  like  all  his  opinions,  unsettled,  leaned  strongly 

30  towards  the  side  of  liberty.    He  had  assisted  the  Italian 


LIFE   OF   LORD  BYRON  171 

insurgents  with  his  purse,  and  if  their  struggle  against  the 
Austrian  government  had  been  prolonged,  would  prob- 
ably have  assisted  them  with  his  sword.  But  to  Greece 
he  was  attached  by  peculiar  ties.  He  had  when  young 
resided  in  that  country.  Much  of  his  most  splendid  and  5 
popular  poetry  had  been  inspired  by  its  scenery  and  by 
its  history.  Sick  of  inaction,  degraded  in  his  own  eyes 
by  his  private  vices  and  by  his  literary  failures,  pining 
for  untried  excitement  and  honorable  distinction,  he 
carried  his  exhausted  body  and  his  wounded  spirit  to  10 
the  Grecian  camp. 

His  conduct  in  his  new  situation  showed  so  much 
vigor  and  good  sense  as  to  justify  us  in  believing  that, 
if  his  life  had  been  prolonged,  he  might  have  distinguished 
himself  as  a  soldier  and  a  politician.  But  pleasure  and  15 
sorrow  had  done  the  work  of  seventy  years  upon  his 
delicate  frame.  The  hand  of  death  was  upon  him;  he 
knew  it;  and  the  only  wish  which  he  uttered  was  that 
he  might  die  sword  in  hand. 

This  was  denied  to  him.  Anxiety,  exertion,  exposure,  20 
and  those  fatal  stimulants  which  had  become  indispen- 
sable to  him,  soon  stretched  him  on  a  sick  bed,  in  a 
strange  land,  amidst  strange  faces,  without  one  human 
being  that  he  loved  near  him.  There,  at  thirty-six,  the 
most  celebated  Englishman  of  the  nineteenth  century  25 
closed  his  brilliant  and  miserable  career. 

We  cannot  even  now  retrace  those  events  without  feel- 
ing something  of  what  was  felt  by  the  nation,  when  it 
was  first  known  that  the  grave  had  closed  over  so  much 
sorrow  and  so  much  glory;  something  of  what  was  felt  30 


172  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

by  those  who  saw  the  hearse,  with  its  long  train  of 
coaches,  turn  slowly  northward,  leaving  behind  it  that 
cemetery  which  had  been  consecrated  by  the  dust  of  so 
many  great  poets,  but  of  which  the  doors  were  closed 
5  against  all  that  remained  of  Byron.  We  well  remember 
on  that  day,  rigid  moralists  could  not  refrain  from  weep- 
ing for  one  so  young,  so  illustrious,  so  unhappy,  gifted 
with  such  rare  gifts,  and  tried  by  such  strong  tempta- 
tions.    It  is  unnecessary  to  make  any  reflections.     The 

10  history  carries  its  moral  with  it.  Our  age  has  indeed 
been  fruitful  of  warnings  to  the  eminent,  and  of  conso- 
lations to  the  obscure.  Two  men  have  died  within  our 
recollection,  who,  at  a  time  of  life  at  which  many  people 
have    hardly    completed    their    education,    had    raised 

15  themselves,  each  in  his  own  department,  to  the  height 
of  glory.  One  of  them  died  at  Longwood;  the  other  at 
Missolonghi. 

It  is  always  difficult  to  separate  the  literary  character  of 
a  man  who  lives  in  our  own  time  from  his  personal  char- 

20  acter.  It  is  peculiarly  difficult  to  make  this  separation 
in  the  case  of  Lord  Byron.  For  it  is  scarcely  too  much 
to  say,  that  Lord  Byron  never  wrote  without  some  ref- 
erence, direct  or  indirect,  to  himself.  The  interest  ex- 
cited by  the  events  of  his  life  mingles  itself  in  our  minds, 

^5  and  probably  in  the  minds  of  almost  all  our  readers, 
with  the  interest  which  properly  belongs  to  his  works. 
A  generation  must  pass  away  before  it  will  be  possible 
to  form  a  fair  judgment  of  his  books,  considered  merely 
as  books.     At  present  they  are  not  merely  books,  but 

30  relics.     We   will,   however,   venture,    though   with  un- 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  1 73 

feigned  diffidence,  to  offer  some  desultory  remarks  on 
his  poetry. 

His  lot  was  cast  in  the  time  of  a  great  literary  revolu- 
tion. That  poetical  dynasty  which  had  dethroned  the 
successors  of  Shakespeare  and  Spenser  was,  in  its  turn,  5 
dethroned  by  a  race  who  represented  themselves  as  heirs 
of  the  ancient  line,  so  long  dispossessed  by  usurpers. 
The  real  nature  of  this  revolution  has  not,  we  think, 
been  comprehended  by  the  great  majority  of  those  who 
concurred  in  it.  10 

Wherein  especially  does  the  poetry  of  our  times  differ 
from  that  of  the  last  century?  Ninety-nine  persons  out 
of  a  hundred  would  answer  that  the  poetry  of  the  last 
century  was  correct,  but  cold  and  mechanical,  and  that 
the  poetry  of  our  time,  though  wild  and  irregular,  pre-  15 
sented  far  more  vivid  images,  and  excited  the  passions 
far  more  strongly  than  that  of  Parnell,  of  Addison,  or 
of  Pope.  In  the  same  manner  we  constantly  hear  it  said, 
that  the  poets  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  had  far  more 
genius,  but  far  less  correctness  than  those  of  the  age  of  20 
Anne.  It  seems  to  be  taken  for  granted,  that  there  is 
some  incompatibility,  some  antithesis  between  correct- 
ness and  creative  power.  We  rather  suspect  that  this 
notion  arises  merely  from  an  abuse  of  words,  and  that 
it  has  been  the  parent  of  many  of  the  fallacies  which  25 
perplex  the  science  of  criticism. 

What  is  meant  by  correctness  in  poetry?  If  by  cor- 
rectness be  meant  the  conforming  to  rules  which  have 
their  foundation  in  truth  and  in  the  principles  of  human 
nature,  then  correctness  is  only  another  name  for  ex-  30 


174  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

cellence.  If  by  correctness  be  meant  the  conforming  to 
rules  purely  arbitrary,  correctness  may  be  another  name 
for  dullness  and  absurdity. 
A  writer  who  describes  visible  objects  falsely  and  vio- 
5  lates  the  propriety  of  character,  a  writer  who  makes  the 
mountains  "nod  their  drowsy  heads"  at  night,  or  a 
dying  man  take  leave  of  the  world  with  a  rant  like  that  of 
Maximin,  may  be  said  in  the  high  and  just  sense  of  the 
phrase,  to  write  incorrectly.     He  violates  the  first  great 

10  law  of  his  art.  His  imitation  is  altogether  unlike  the 
thing  imitated.  The  four  poets  who  are  most  eminently 
free  from  incorrectness  of  this  description  are  Homer, 
Dante,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton.  They  are,  therefore, 
in  one  sense,  and  that  the  best  sense,  the  most  correct  of 

15  poets. 

When  it  is  said  that  Virgil,  though  he  had  less  genius 
than  Homer,  was  a  more  correct  writer,  what  sense  is 
attached  to  the  word  correctness?  Is  it  meant  that  the 
story  of  the  Mneid  is  developed  more  skillfully  than  that 

20  of  the  Odyssey  ?  that  the  Roman  describes  the  face  of 
the  external  world,  or  the  emotions  of  the  mind,  more 
accurately  than  the  Greek  ?  that  the  characters  of  Achates 
and  Mnestheus  are  more  nicely  discriminated,  and  more 
consistently  supported,  than  those  of  Achilles,  of  Nestor, 

25  and  of  Ulysses?  The  fact  incontestably  is  that,  for  every 
violation  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  poetry  which  can  be 
found  in  Homer,  it  would  be  easy  to  find  twenty  in 
Virgil. 

Troilus   and  Cressida  is  perhaps  of  all  the  plays  of 

30  Shakespeare  that  which  is  commonly  considered  as  the 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  1 75 

most  incorrect.  Yet  it  seems  to  us  infinitely  more  cor- 
rect, in  the  sound  sense  of  the  term,  than  what  are  called 
the  most  correct  plays  of  the  most  correct  dramatists. 
Compare  it,  for  example,  with  the  Iphigenie  of  Racine. 
We  are  sure  that  the  Greeks  of  Shakespeare  bear  a  far  5 
greater  resemblance  than  the  Greeks  of  Racine  to  the 
real  Greeks  who  besieged  Troy;  and  for  this  reason,  that 
the  Greeks  of  Shakespeare  are  human  beings,  and  the 
Greeks  of  Racine  mere  names,  mere  words  printed  in 
capitals  at  the  head  of  paragraphs  of  declamation.  Ra-  10 
cine,  it  is  true,  would  have  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
making  a  warrior  at  the  siege  of  Troy  quote  Aristotle. 
But  of  what  use  is  it  to  avoid  a  single  anachronism,  when 
the  whole  play  is  one  anachronism,  the  sentiments  and 
phrases  of  Versailles  in  the  camp  of  Aulis?  15 

In  the  sense  in  which  we  are  now  using  the  word 
correctness,  we  think  that  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Mr.  Words- 
worth, Mr.  Coleridge,  are  far  more  correct  poets  than 
those  who  are  commonly  extolled  as  the  models  of  cor- 
rectness, Pope,  for  example,  and  Addison.  The  single  20 
description  of  a  moonlight  night  in  Pope's  Iliad  con- 
tains more  inaccuracies  than  can  be  found  in  all  the 
Excursion.  There  is  not  a  single  scene  in  Cato,  in  which 
all  that  conduces  to  poetical  illusion,  all  the  propriety 
of  character,  of  language,  of  situation,  is  not  more  grossly  25 
violated  than  in  any  part  of  the  Lay  oj  the  Last  Minstrel. 
No  man  can  possibly  think  that  the  Romans  of  Addison 
resemble  the  real  Romans  so  closely  as  the  moss-troopers 
of  Scott  resemble  the  real  moss-troopers.  Wat  Tinlinn 
and  William  of  Deloraine  are  not,  it  is  true,  persons  of  30 


176  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

so  much  dignity  as  Cato.  But  the  dignity  of  the  persons 
represented  has  as  little  to  do  with  the  correctness  of 
poetry  as  with  the  correctness  of  painting.  We  prefer 
a  gypsy  by  Reynolds  to  his  Majesty's  head  on  a  sign- 
5  post,  and  a  Borderer  by  Scott  to  a  Senator  by  Addison. 
In  what  sense,  then,  is  the  word  correctness  used  by 
those  who  say,  with  the  author  of  the  Pursuits  0}  Lit- 
erature, that  Pope  was  the  most  correct  of  English 
Poets,  and  that  next  to  Pope  came  the  late  Mr.  Gifford  ? 

10  What  is  the  nature  and  value  of  that  correctness,  the 
praise  of  which  is  denied  to  Macbeth,  to  Lear,  and  to 
Othello,  and  given  to  Hoole's  translations  and  to  all 
the  Seatonian  prize  poems?  We  can  discover  no  eter- 
nal rule,  no  rule  founded  in  reason  and  in  the  nature  of 

15  things,  which  Shakespeare  does  not  observe  much  more 
strictly  than  Pope.  But  if  by  correctness  be  meant  the 
conforming  to  a  narrow  legislation  which,  while  lenient 
to  the  mala  in  se,  multiplies,  without  the  shadow  of  a 
reason,  the  mala  prohibita,  if  by  correctness  be  meant 

20  a  strict  attention  to  certain  ceremonious  observances, 
which  are  no  more  essential  to  poetry  than  etiquette 
to  good  government,  or  than  the  washings  of  a  Pharisee 
to  devotion,  then,  assuredly,  Pope  may  be  a  more  cor- 
rect poet  than  Shakespeare;  and,  if  the  code  were  a 

25  little  altered,  Colley  Cibber  might  be  a  more  correct 
poet  than  Pope.  But  it  may  well  be  doubted  whether 
this  kind  of  correctness  be  a  merit,  nay,  whether  it  be 
not  an  absolute  fault. 

It  would  be  amusing  to  make  a  digest  of  the  irrational 

30  laws  which  bad  critics  have  framed  for  the  government 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  1 77 

of  poets.  First  in  celebrity  and  in  absurdity  stand  the 
dramatic  unities  of  place  and  time.  No  human  being 
has  ever  been  able  to  find  anything  that  could,  even  by 
courtesy,  be  called  an  argument  for  these  unities,  ex- 
cept that  they  have  been  deduced  from  the  general  prac-  5 
tice  of  the  Greeks.  It  requires  no  very  profound  ex- 
amination to  discover  that  the  Greek  dramas,  often 
admirable  as  compositions,  are,  as  exhibitions  of  human 
character  and  human  life,  far  inferior  to  the  English 
plays  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth.  Every  scholar  knows  10 
that  the  dramatic  part  of  the  Athenian  tragedies  was 
at  first  suborbinate  to  the  lyrical  part.  It  would,  there- 
fore, have  been  little  less  than  a  miracle  if  the  laws  of 
the  Athenian  stage  had  been  found  to  suit  plays  in  which 
there  was  no  chorus.  All  the  greatest  masterpieces  of  15 
the  dramatic  art  have  been  composed  in  the  direct  vio- 
lation of  the  unities,  and  could  never  have  been  com- 
posed if  the  unities  had  not  been  violated.  It  is  clear, 
for  example,  that  such  a  character  as  that  of  Hamlet 
could  never  have  been  developed  within  the  limits  to  2c 
which  Alfieri  confined  himself.  Yet  such  was  the  rev- 
erence of  literary  men  during  the  last  century  for  these 
unities  that  Johnson,  who,  much  to  his  honor,  took  the 
opposite  side,  was,  as  he  says,  "frightened  at  his  own 
temerity,"  and  "afraid  to  stand  against  the  authorities  25 
which  might  be  produced  against  him." 

There  are  other  rules  of  the  same  kind  without  end. 
"Shakespeare,"  says  Rymer,  "ought  not  to  have  made 
Othello  black;  for  the  hero  of  a  tragedy  ought  always 
to  be  white."     "Milton,"  says  another  critic,  "ought  30 
Prose — 1 2 


1/8  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

not  to  have  taken  Adam  for  his  hero;  for  the  hero  of  an 
epic  poem  ought  always  to  be  victorious."  "  Milton," 
says  another,  "ought  not  to  have  put  so  many  similes 
into  his  first  book;  for  the  first  book  of  an  epic  poem 
5  ought  always  to  be  the  most  unadorned.  There  are  no 
similes  in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad."  "Milton,"  says 
another,  "ought  not  to  have  placed  in  an  epic  poem  such 
lines  as  these: — 

"  •  While  thus  I  called,  and  strayed  I  knew  not  whither.'" 

10  And  why  not  ?  The  critic  is  ready  with  a  reason,  a  lady's 
reason.  "Such  lines,"  says  he,  "are  not,  it  must  be  al- 
lowed, unpleasing  to  the  ear;  but  the  redundant  syllable 
ought  to  be  confined  to  the  drama,  and  not  admitted 
into  epic  poetry."    As  to  the  redundant  syllable  in  heroic 

15  rhyme  on  serious  subjects,  it  has  been,  from  the  time 
of  Pope  downward,  proscribed  by  the  general  consent 
of  all  the  correct  school.  No  magazine  would  have  ad- 
mitted so  incorrect  a  couplet  as  that  of  Drayton: 

"As  when  we  lived  untouch'd  with  these  disgraces 
20  When  as  our  kingdom  was  our  dear  embraces." 

Another  law  of  heroic  rhyme,  which,  fifty  years  ago,  was 
considered  as  fundamental,  was,  that  there  should  be 
a  pause,  a  comma  at  least,  at  the  end  of  every  couplet. 
It  was  also  provided  that  there  should  never  be  a  full 
25  stop  except  at  the  end  of  a  line.  Well  do  we  remember 
to  have  heard  a  most  correct  judge  of  poetry  revile 
Mr.  Rogers  for  the  incorrectness  of  that  most  sweet  and 
graceful  passage, 


LIFE   OF  LORD   BYRON  1 79 

"  Such  grief  was  ours, — it  seems  but  yesterday, — 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'Twas  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  sister's  arms  to  die. 

Oh  thou  wert  lovely ;  lovely  was  thy  frame,  5 

And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  heaven  it  came ; 
And  when  recalled  to  join  the  blest  above 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceeding  love, 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.     In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers,  io 

Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  badst  me  write  on  thee; 
And  now  I  write  what  thou  shalt  never  see." 

Sir  Roger  Newdigate  is  fairly  entitled,  we  think,  to  be 
ranked  among  the  great  critics  of  this  school.  He  made 
a  law  that  none  of  the  poems  written  for  the  prize  which  15 
he  established  at  Oxford  should  exceed  fifty  lines.  This 
law  seems  to  us  to  have  at  least  as  much  foundation  in 
reason  as  any  of  those  which  we  have  mentioned;  nay, 
much  more,  for  the  world,  we  believe,  is  pretty  well 
agreed  in  thinking  that  the  shorter  a  prize  poem  is,  the  20 
better. 

We  do  not  see  why  we  should  not  make  a  few  more 
rules  of  the  same  kind;  why  we  should  not  enact  that  the 
number  of  scenes  in  every  act  shall  be  three  or  some 
multiple  of  three,  that  the  number  of  lines  in  every  25 
scene  shall  be  an  exact  square,  that  the  dramatis  per- 
sona: shall  never  be  more  or  fewer  than  sixteen,  and 
that,  in  heroic  rhymes,  every  thirty-sixth  line  shall  have 
twelve  syllables.  If  we  were  to  lay  down  these  canons, 
and  to  call  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and  Addison  incorrect  30 
writers  for  not  having  complied  with  our  whims,  we 


l8o  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

should  act  precisely  as  those  critics  act  who  find  incor- 
rectness in  the  magnificent  imagery  and  the  varied  music 
of  Coleridge  and  Shelley. 

The  correctness  which  the  last  century  prized  so  much 
5  resembles  the  correctness  of  those  pictures  of  the  garden 
of  Eden  which  we  see  in  old  Bibles.  We  have  an  exact 
square,  inclosed  by  the  rivers  Pison,  Gihon,  Hiddekel, 
and  Euphrates,  each  with  a  convenient  bridge  in  the 
center,  rectangular  beds  of  flowers,  a  long  canal,  neatly 

10  bricked  and  railed  in,  the  tree  of  knowledge,  clipped  like 
one  of  the  limes  behind  the  Tuileries,  standing  in  the 
center  of  the  grand  alley,  the  snake  twined  round  it, 
the  man  on  the  right  hand,  the  woman  on  the  left,  and 
the  beasts  drawn  up  in  an  exact  circle  round  them.    In 

15  one  sense  the  picture  is  correct  enough.  That  is  to  say, 
the  squares  are  correct;  the  circles  are  correct;  the  man 
and  the  woman  are  in  a  most  correct  line  with  the  tree; 
and  the  snake  forms  a  most  correct  spiral. 

But  if  there  were  a  painter  so  gifted  that  he  could 

20  place  on  the  canvas  that  glorious  paradise,  seen  by  the 
interior  eye  of  him  whose  outward  sight  had  failed  with 
long  watching  and  laboring  for  liberty  and  truth,  if 
there  were  a  painter  who  could  set  before  us  the  mazes 
of  the  sapphire  brook,  the  lake  with  its  fringe  of  myrtles, 

25  the  flowery  meadows,  the  grottoes  overhung  by  vines, 
the  forests  shining  with  Hesperian  fruit  and  with  the 
plumage  of  gorgeous  birds,  the  massy  shade  of  that 
nuptial  bower  which  showered  down  roses  on  the  sleep- 
ing lovers,  what  should  we  think  of  a  connoisseur  who 

30  should  tell  us  that  this  painting,  though  finer  than  the 


LIFE  OF  LORD   BYRON  l8l 

absurd  picture  in  the  old  Bible,  was  not  so  correct? 
Surely  we  should  answer,  It  is  both  finer  and  more  cor- 
rect; and  it  is  finer  because  it  is  more  correct.  It  is  not 
made  up  of  correctly  drawn  diagrams;  but  it  is  a  correct 
painting,  a  worthy  representation  of  that  which  it  is  5 
intended  to  represent. 

It  is  not  in  the  fine  arts  alone  that  this  false  correctness 
is  prized  by  narrow-minded  men,  by  men  who  cannot 
distinguish  means  from  ends,  or  what  is  accidental  from 
what  is  essential.  M.  Jourdain  admired  correctness  in  10 
fencing.  "You  had  no  business  to  hit  me  then.  You 
must  never  thrust  in  quart  till  you  have  thrust  in  tierce." 
M.  Tomes  liked  correctness  in  medical  practice.  "I 
stand  up  for  Artemius.  That  he  killed  his  patient  is 
plain  enough.  But  still  he  acted  quite  according  to  rule.  15 
A  man  dead  is  a  man  dead;  and  there  is  an  end  of  the 
matter.  But  if  rules  are  to  be  broken,  there  is  no  say- 
ing what  consequences  may  follow."  We  have  heard 
of  an  old  German  officer,  who  was  a  great  admirer  of 
correctness  in  military  operations.  He  used  to  revile  20 
Bonaparte  for  spoiling  the  science  of  war,  which  had 
been  carried  to  such  exquisite  perfection  by  Marshal 
Daun.  "In  my  youth  we  used  to  march  and  counter- 
march all  the  summer  without  gaining  or  losing  a  square 
league,  and  then  we  went  into  winter  quarters.  And  25 
now  comes  an  ignorant,  hot-headed  young  man,  who 
flies  about  from  Bologne  to  Ulm,  and  from  Ulm  to  the 
middle  of  Moravia,  and  fights  battles  in  December. 
The  whole  system  of  his  tactics  is  monstrously  incorrect." 
The  world  is  of  opinion,  in  spite  of  critics  like  these,  30 


182  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

that  the  end  of  fencing  is  to  hit,  that  the  end  of  medi- 
cine is  to  cure,  that  the  end  of  war  is  to  conquer,  and 
that  those  means  are  the  most  correct  which  best  ac- 
complish the  ends. 

5  And  has  poetry  no  end,  no  eternal  and  immutable  prin- 
ciples? Is  poetry  like  heraldry,  mere  matter  of  arbitrary 
regulation?  The  heralds  tell  us  that  certain  scutcheons 
and  bearings  denote  certain  conditions,  and  that  to  put 
colors  on  colors,  or  metals  on  metals,  is  false  blazonry. 

io  If  all  this  were  reversed,  if  every  coat  of  arms  in  Europe 
were  new  fashioned,  if  it  were  decreed  that  or  should 
never  be  placed  but  on  argent,  or  argent  but  on  or,  that 
illegitimacy  should  be  denoted  by  a  lozenge,  and  widow- 
hood by  a  bend,  the  new  science  would  be  just  as  good 

15  as  the  old  science,  because  both  the  new  and  old  would 
be  good  for  nothing.  The  mummery  of  Portcullis  and 
Rouge  Dragon,  as  it  has  no  other  value  than  that  which 
caprice  has  assigned  to  it,  may  well  submit  to  any  laws 
which  caprice  may  impose  upon  it.     But  it  is  not  so 

20  with  that  great  imitative  art,  to  the  power  of  which  all 
ages,  the  rudest  and  the  most  enlightened,  bear  witness. 
Since  its  first  great  masterpieces  were  produced,  every- 
thing that  is  changeable  in  this  world  has  been  changed. 
Civilization  has  been  gained,  lost,  gained  again.      Reli- 

25  gions,  the  languages,  and  forms  of  government,  and  usages 
of  private  life,  and  modes  of  thinking,  all  have  under- 
gone a  succession  of  revolutions.  Everything  has  passed 
away  but  the  great  features  of  nature,  and  the  heart  of 
man,  and  the  miracles  of  that  art  which  it  is  the  office 

30  to  reflect  back  the  heart  of  man  and  the  features  of  na- 


LIFE  OF  LORD   BYRON  1 83 

ture.  Those  two  strange  old  poems,  the  wonder  of  ninety 
generations,  still  retain  all  their  freshness.  They  still 
command  the  veneration  of  minds  enriched  by  the 
literature  of  many  nations  and  ages.  They  are  still, 
even  in  wretched  translations,  the  delight  of  school-  5 
boys.  Having  survived  ten  thousand  capricious  fashions, 
having  seen  successive  codes  of  criticism  become  obso- 
lete, they  still  remain  to  us,  immortal  with  the  immor- 
tality of  truth,  the  same  when  pursued  in  the  study  of 
an  English  scholar,  as  when  they  were  first  chanted  at  10 
the  banquets  of  the  Ionian  princes. 

Poetry  is,  as  was  said  more  than  two  thousand  years 
ago,  imitation.  It  is  an  art  analogous  in  many  respects 
to  the  art  of  painting,  sculpture,  and  acting.  The  imi- 
tations of  the  painter,  the  sculptor,  and  the  actor,  are  15 
indeed,  within  certain  limits,  more  perfect  than  those  of 
the  poet.  The  machinery  which  the  poet  employs 
consists  merely  of  words,  and  words  cannot,  even  when 
employed  by  such  an  artist  as  Homer  or  Dante,  present 
to  the  mind  images  of  visible  objects  quite  so  lively  and  20 
exact  as  those  which  we  carry  away  from  looking  on 
the  works  of  the  brush  and  the  chisel.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  range  of  poetry  is  infinitely  wider  than  that 
of  any  other  imitative  art,  or  than  that  of  all  the  other 
imitative  arts  together.  The  sculptor  can  imitate  only  25 
form;  the  painter  only  form  and  color;  the  actor,  until 
the  poet  supplies  him  with  words,  only  form,  color,  and 
motion.  Poetry  holds  the  outer  world  in  common  with 
the  other  arts.  The  heart  of  man  is  the  province  of 
poetry,  and  of  poetry  alone.    The  painter,  the  sculptor,  30 


184  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

and  the  actor  can  exhibit  no  more  of  human  passion  and 
character  than  that  small  portion  which  overflows  into 
the  gesture  and  the  face,  always  an  imperfect,  often  a 
deceitful  sign  of  that  which  is  within.  The  deeper  and 
5  more  complex  parts  of  human  nature  can  be  exhibited 
by  means  of  words  alone.  Thus  the  objects  of  the  imi- 
tation of  poetry  are  the  whole  external  and  the  whole 
internal  universe,  the  face  of  nature,  the  vicissitudes  of 
fortune,  man  as  he  is  in  himself,  man  as  he  appears  in 

10  society,  all  things  which  really  exist,  all  things  of  which 
we  can  form  an  image  in  our  minds  by  combining  to- 
gether parts  of  things  which  really  exist.  The  domain 
of  this  imperial  art  is  commensurate  with  the  imagi- 
native faculty. 

15  An  art  essentially  imitative  ought  not  surely  to  be  sub- 
jected to  rules  which  tend  to  make  its  imitations  less  per- 
fect than  they  otherwise  would  be;  and  those  who  obey 
such  rules  ought  to  be  called,  not  correct,  but  incorrect 
artists.     The  true  way  to  judge  of  the  rules  by  which 

20  English  poetry  was  governed  during  the  last  century  is 
to  look  at  the  effects  which  they  produced. 

It  was  in  1780  that  Johnson  completed  his  Lives  of 
the  Poets.  He  tells  us  in  that  work  that,  since  the  time 
of  Dry  den,  English  poetry  had  shown  no  tendency  to 

25  relapse  into  its  original  savageness,  that  its  language  had 
been  refined,  its  numbers  tuned,  and  its  sentiments  im- 
proved. It  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  the  na- 
tion had  any  great  reason  to  exult  in  the  refinements  and 
improvements  which  gave  it  Douglas  for  Othello,  and 

30  the  Triumphs  of  Temper  for  the  Fairy  Queen. 


LitfE  OF  LORD  BYRON  1 85 

It  was  during  the  thirty  years  which  preceded  the  ap- 
pearance of  Johnson's  Lives  that  the  diction  and  ver- 
sification of  English  poetry  were,  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  word  is  commonly  used,  most  correct.  Those  thirty 
years  are,  as  respects  poetry,  the  most  deplorable  part  5 
of  our  literary  history.  They  have  indeed  bequeathed 
to  us  scarcely  any  poetry  which  deserves  to  be  remem- 
bered. Two  or  three  hundred  lines  of  Gray,  twice  as 
many  of  Goldsmith,  a  few  stanzas  of  Beattie  and  Col- 
lins, a  few  strophes  of  Mason,  and  a  few  clever  prologues  10 
and  satires,  were  the  masterpieces  of  this  age  of  con- 
summate excellence.  They  may  all  be  printed  in  one 
volume,  and  that  volume  would  be  by  no  means  a  vol- 
ume of  extraordinary  merit.  It  would  contain  no  poetry 
of  the  very  highest  class,  and  little  which  could  be  placed  15 
very  high  in  the  second  class.  The  Paradise  Regained 
or  Comus  would  outweigh  it  all. 

At  last,  when  poetry  had  fallen  into  such  utter  decay 
that  Mr.  Hayley  was  thought  a  great  poet,  it  began  to 
appear  that  the  excess  of  the  evil  was  about  to  work  the  20 
cure.  Men  became  tired  of  an  insipid  conformity  to  a 
standard  which  derived  no  authority  from  nature  or 
reason.  A  shallow  criticism  had  taught  them  to  ascribe 
a  superstitious  value  to  the  spurious  correctness  of  poet- 
asters. A  deeper  criticism  brought  them  back  to  the  true  25 
correctness  of  the  first  great  masters.  The  eternal  laws 
of  poetry  regained  their  power,  and  the  temporary 
fashions  which  had  superseded  those  laws  went  after 
the  wig  of  Lovelace  and  the  hoop  of  Clarissa. 

It  was  in  a  cold  and  barren  season  that  the  seeds  of  3° 


U 


1 86  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

that  rich  harvest  which  we  have  reaped  were  first  sown, 
While  poetry  was  every  year  becoming  more  feeble  and 
more  mechanical,  while  the  monotonous  versification 
which  Pope  had  introduced,  no  longer  redeemed  by  his 
5  brilliant  wit  and  his  compactness  of  expression,  palled 
on  the  ear  of  the  public,  the  great  works  of  the  old  mas- 
ters were  every  day  attracting  more  and  more  of  the  ad- 
miration which  they  deserved.  The  plays  of  Shakespeare 
were  better  acted,  better  edited,  and  better  known  than 

10  they  had  ever  been.  Our  fine  ancient  ballads  were  again 
read  with  pleasure,  and  it  became  a  fashion  to  imitate 
them.  Many  of  the  imitations  were  altogether  con- 
temptible. But  they  showed  that  men  had  at  least 
begun  to  admire  the  excellence  which  they  could  not 

15  rival.  A  literary  revolution  was  evidently  at  hand. 
There  was  a  ferment  in  the  minds  of  men,  a  vague  crav- 
ing for  something  new,  a  disposition  to  hail  with  de- 
light anything  which  might  at  first  sight  wear  the  ap- 
pearance of  originality.     A  reforming    age    is    always 

20  fertile  to  impostors.  The  same  excited  state  of  public 
feeling  which  produced  the  great  separation  from  the 
see  of  Rome  produced  also  the  excesses  of  the  Anabap- 
tists. The  same  stir  in  the  public  mind  of  Europe  which 
overthrew  the  abuses  of  the  old   French  government, 

25  produced  the  Jacobins  and  Theophilanthropists.  Mac- 
pherson  and  Delia  Crusca  were  to  the  true  reformers  of 
English  poetry  what  Knipperdoling  was  to  Luther,  or 
Clootz  to  Turgot.  The  success  of  Chatterton's  forgeries 
and  of  the  far  more  contemptible  forgeries  of  Ireland 

30  showed  that  people  had  begun  to  love  the  old  poetry 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  187 

well,  though  not  wisely.  The  public  were  never  more 
disposed  to  believe  stories  without  evidence,  and  to  ad- 
mire books  without  merit.  Any  thing  which  could 
break  the  dull  monotony  of  the  correct  school  was  ac- 
ceptable. 5 

The  forerunner  of  the  great  restoration  of  our  litera- 
ture was  Cowper.  His  literary  career  began  and  ended 
at  nearly  the  same  time  with  that  of  Alfieri.  A  com- 
parison between  Alfieri  and  Cowper  may,  at  first  sight, 
appear  as  strange  as  that  which  a  loyal  Presbyterian  10 
minister  is  said  to  have  made  in  1745  between  George 
the  Second  and  Enoch.  It  may  seem  that  the  gentle, 
shy,  melancholy  Calvinist,  whose  spirit  had  been  broken 
by  fagging  at  school,  who  had  not  courage  to  earn  a 
livelihood  by  reading  the  titles  of  bills  in  the  House  of  15 
Lords,  and  whose  favorite  associates  were  a  blind  old 
lady  and  an  evangelical  divine,  could  have  nothing  in 
common  with  the  haughty,  ardent,  and  voluptuous 
nobleman,  the  horse-jockey,  the  libertine,  who  fought 
Lord  Ligonier  in  Hyde  Park,  and  robbed  the  Pretender  20 
of  his  queen.  But  though  the  private  lives  of  these  re- 
markable men  present  scarcely  any  points  of  resemblance, 
their  literary  lives  bear  a  close  analogy  to  each  other. 
They  both  found  poetry  in  its  lowest  state  of  degrada- 
tion, feeble,  artificial,  and  altogether  nerveless.  They  25 
both  possessed  precisely  the  talents  which  fitted  them 
for  the  task  of  raising  it  from  that  deep  abasement. 
They  cannot,  in  strictness,  be  called  great  poets.  They 
had  not  in  any  very  high  degree  the  creative  power, 

"  The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine ;  "  30 


l88  NINETEENTH   CENTURY    PROSE 

but  they  had  great  vigor  of  thought,  great  warmth  of 
feeling,  and  what,  in  their  circumstances,  was  above  all 
things  important,  a  manliness  of  taste  which  approached 
to  roughness.  They  did  not  deal  in  mechanical  versi- 
5  fication  and  conventional  phrases.  They  wrote  con- 
cerning things  the  thought  of  which  set  their  hearts  on 
fire;  and  thus  what  they  wrote,  even  when  it  wanted  every 
other  grace,  had  that  inimitable  grace  which  sincerity 
and  strong  passion  impart  to  the  rudest  and  most  homely 

10  compositions.  Each  of  them  sought  for  inspiration  in 
a  noble  and  affecting  subject,  fertile  of  images  which 
had  not  yet  been  hackneyed.  Liberty  was  the  muse  of 
Alfieri,  Religion  was  the  muse  of  Cowper.  The  same 
truth  is  found  in  their  lighter  pieces.     They  were  not 

15  among  those  who  deprecated  the  severity,  or  deplored 
the  absence  of  an  unreal  mistress  in  melodious  common- 
places. Instead  of  raving  about  imaginary  Chloes  and 
Sylvias,  Cowper  wrote  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  knitting  needles. 
The  only  love-verses  of  Alfieri  were  addressed  to  one 

20  whom  he  truly  and  passionately  loved.     "Tutte  le  rime 

amorose  che  seguono,"  says  he,  "tutte  sono  per  essa, 

e  ben  sue,  e  di  lei  solamente;  poiche  mai  d'  altra  donna 

per  certo  non  cantero." 

These  great  men  were  not  free  from  affectation.    But 

25  their  affectation  was  directly  opposed  to  the  affectation 
which  generally  prevailed.  Each  of  them  expressed, 
in  strong  and  bitter  language,  the  contempt  which  he 
felt  for  the  effeminate  poetasters  who  were  in  fash- 
ion both  in  England  and  in  Italy.     Cowper  complains 

30  that 


LIFE   OF  LORD   BYRON  1 89 

"  Manner  is  all  in  all,  whate'er  is  writ, 
The  substitute  for  genius,  taste,  and  wit." 

He  praised  Pope;  yet  he  regretted  that  Pope  had 

'•  Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanic  art, 
And  every  warbler  had  his  tune  by  heart."  5 

Alfieri  speaks  with  similar  scorn  of  the  tragedies  of  his 
predecessors.  "  Mi  cadevano  dalle  mani  per  la  langui- 
dezza,  triviality  e  prolissita  dei  modi  e  del  verso,  senza 
parlare  poi  della  snervatezza  dei  pensieri.  Or  perche 
mai  questa  nostra  divina  lingua,  si  maschia  anco,  ed  10 
energica,  e  feroce,  in  bocca  di  Dante,  dovra,  ella  farsi 
cosi  sbiadata  ed  eunuca  nel  dialogo  tragico?" 

To  men  thus  sick  of  the  languid  manner  of  their  con- 
temporaries ruggedness  seemed  a  venial  fault,  or  rather 
a  positive  merit.  In  their  hatred  of  meretricious  orna-  15 
ment,  and  of  what  Cowper  calls  "creamy  smoothness," 
they  erred  on  the  opposite  side.  Their  style  was  too 
austere,  their  versification  too  harsh.  It  is  not  easy, 
however,  to  overrate  the  service  which  they  rendered 
to  literature.  The  intrinsic  value  of  their  poems  is  con-  20 
siderable.  But  the  example  which  they  set  of  mutiny 
against  an  absurd  system  was  invaluable.  The  part 
which  they  performed  was  rather  that  of  Moses  than  that 
of  Joshua.  They  opened  the  house  of  bondage;  but 
they  did  not  enter  the  promised  land.  25 

During  the  twenty  years  which  followed  the  death  of 
Cowper,  the  revolution  in  English  poetry  was  fully  con- 
summated. None  of  the  writers  of  this  period,  not  even 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  contributed  so  much  to  the  consumma- 


I90  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

tion  as  Lord  Byron.  Yet  Lord  Byron  contributed  to  it 
unwillingly,  and  with  constant  self-reproach  and  shame. 
All  his  tastes  and  inclinations  led  him  to  take  part  with 
the  school  of  poetry  which  was  going  out  against  the 
5  school  which  was  coming  in.  Of  Pope  himself  he  spoke 
with  extravagant  admiration.  He  did  not  venture  di- 
rectly to  say  that  the  little  man  of  Twickenham  was  a 
greater  poet  than  Shakespeare  or  Milton;  but  he  hinted 
pretty  clearly  that  he  thought  so.    Of  his  contemporaries, 

10  scarcely  any  had  so  much  of  his  admiration  as  Mr. 
Gifford,  who,  considered  as  a  poet,  was  mere'/y  Pope, 
without  Pope's  wit  and  fancy,  and  whose  satires  are 
decidedly  inferior  in  vigor  and  poignancy  to  the  very 
imperfect  juvenile  performance  of  Lord  Byron  himself. 

15  He  now  and  then  praised  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  Mr. 
Coleridge,  but  ungraciously  and  without  cordiality. 
When  he  attacked  them,  he  brought  his  whole  soul  to 
the  work.  Of  the  most  elaborate  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
poems  he  could  find  nothing  to  say,  but  that  it  was 

20  "clumsy,  and  frowsy,  and  his  aversion."  Peter  Bell 
excited  his  spleen  to  such  a  degree  that  he  evoked  the 
shades  of  Pope  and  Dryden,  and  demanded  of  them 
whether  it  were  possible  that  such  trash  could  evade 
contempt?    In  his  heart  he  thought  his  own  Pilgrimage 

25  of  Harold  inferior  to  his  Imitation  of  Horace's  Art  of 
Poetry,  a  feeble  echo  of  Pope  and  Johnson.  This  in- 
sipid performance  he  repeatedly  designed  to  publish, 
and  was  withheld  only  by  the  solicitations  of  his  friends. 
He  has  distinctly  declared  his  approbation  of  the  unities, 

30  the  most  absurd  laws  by  which  genius  was  ever  held 


LIFE   OF  LORD   BYRON  191 

in  servitude.  In  one  of  his  works,  we  think  in  his  letter 
to  Mr.  Bowles,  he  compares  the  poetry  of  the  eighteenth 
century  to  the  Parthenon,  and  that  of  the  nineteenth  to 
a  Turkish  mosque,  and  boasts  that,  although  he  had 
assisted  his  contemporaries  in  building  their  grotesque  5 
and  barbarous  edifice,  he  had  never  joined  them  in 
defacing  the  remains  of  a  chaster  and  more  graceful 
architecture.  In  another  letter  he  compares  the  change 
which  had  recently  passed  on  English  poetry  to  the  de- 
cay of  Latin  poetry  after  the  Augustan  age.  In  the  time  10 
of  Pope,  he  tells  his  friend,  it  was  all  Horace  with  us. 
It  is  all  Claudian  now. 

For  the  great  old  masters  of  the  art  he  had  no  very 
enthusiastic  veneration.  In  his  letter  to  Mr.  Bowles  he 
uses  expressions  which  clearly  indicate  that  he  preferred  15 
Pope's  Iliad  to  the  original.  Mr.  Moore  confesses  that 
his  friend  was  no  very  fervent  admirer  of  Shakespeare. 
Of  all  the  poets  of  the  first  class,  Lord  Byron  seems  to 
have  admired  Dante  and  Milton  most.  Yet  in  the 
fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  he  places  Tasso,  a  writer  20 
not  merely  inferior  to  them,  but  of  quite  a  different  order 
of  mind,  on  at  least  a  footing  of  equality  with  them.  Mr. 
Hunt  is,  we  suspect,  quite  correct  in  saying  that  Lord 
Byron  could  see  little  or  no  merit  in  Spenser. 

But  Byron  the  critic  and  Byron  the  poet  were  two  25 
very  different  men.  The  effects  of  the  noble  writer's 
theory  may  indeed  often  be  traced  in  his  practice.  But 
his  disposition  led  him  to  accommodate  himself  to  the 
literary  taste  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived;  and  his  talents 
would  have  enabled  him  to  accommodate  himself  to  the  30 


192  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

taste  of  any  age.  Though  he  said  much  of  his  contempt 
for  mankind,  and  though  he  boasted  that  amidst  the 
inconstancy  of  fortune  and  of  fame  he  was  all-sufficient 
to  himself,  his  literary  career  indicated  nothing  of  that 

5  lonely  and  unsocial  pride  which  he  affected.  We  cannot 
conceive  him,  like  Milton  or  Wordsworth,  defying  the 
criticism  of  his  contemporaries,  retorting  their  scorn, 
and  laboring  on  a  poem  in  the  full  assurance  that  it 
would  be  unpopular,  and  in  the  full  assurance  that  it 

10  would  be  immortal.  He  has  said,  by  the  mouth  of  one 
of  his  heroes,  in  speaking  of  political  greatness,  that 
"he  must  serve  who  fain  would  sway;"  and  this  he  as- 
signs as  a  reason  for  not  entering  into  political  life.  He 
did  not  consider  that  the  sway  which  he  had  exercised 

15  in  literature  had  been  purchased^  by  servitude,  by  the 
sacrifice  of  his  own  taste  to  the  taste 'of  the  public. 

He  was  the  creature  of  his  age;  and  whenever  he  had 
lived  he  would  have  been  the  creature  of  his  age.  Un- 
der  Charles  the   First   Byron   would   have   been   more 

20  quaint  than  Donne.  Under  Charles  the  Second,  the 
rants  of  Byron's  rhyming  plays  would  have  pitted  it, 
boxed  it,  and  galleried  it,  with  those  of  any  Bays  or 
Bilboa.  Under  George  the  First  the  monotonous  smooth- 
ness of  Byron's  versification  and  the  terseness  of  his  ex- 

?5  pression  would  have  made  Pope  himself  envious. 

As  it  was,  he  was  the  man  of  the  last  thirteen  years  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  of  the  first  twenty-three 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  He  belonged  half  to 
the  old,  and  half  to  the  new  school  of  poetry.    His  per- 

30  sonal  taste  led  him  to  the  former;  his  thirst  of  praise 


LIFE   OF  LORD   BYRON  193 

to  the  latter;  his  talents  were  equally  suited  to  both. 
His  fame  was  a  common  ground  on  which  the  zealots 
of  both  sides,  Gifford,  for  example,  and  Shelley,  might 
meet.  He  was  the  representative,  not  of  either  literary 
party,  but  of  both  at  once,  and  of  their  conflict,  and  of  5 
the  victory  by  which  that  conflict  was  terminated.  His 
poetry  fills  and  measures  the  whole  of  the  vast  interval 
through  which  our  literature  has  moved  since  the  time 
of  Johnson.  It  touches  the  Essay  on  Man  at  the  one 
extremity,  and  the  Excursion  at  the  other.  10 

There  are  several  parallel  instances  in  literary  history. 
Voltaire,  for  example,  was  the  connecting  link  between 
the  France  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  and  the  France  of 
Lewis  the  Sixteenth,  between  Racine  and  Boileau  on 
the  one  side,  and  Condorcet  and  Beaumarchais  on  the  15 
other.     He,  like  Lord  Byron,  put  himself  at  the  head 
of  an  intellectual  revolution,  dreading  it  all  the  time,    . 
murmuring  at  it,  sneering  at  it,  yet  choosing  rather  to 
move  before  his  age  in  any  direction  than  to  be  left  be- 
hind and  forgotten.     Dryden  was  the  connecting  link  20 
between  the  literature  of  the  age  of  James  the  First  and 
the  literature  of  the  age  of  Anne.     Oromasdes  and  Ari- 
manes  fought  for  him.    Ari manes  carried  him  off.    But 
his  heart  was  to  the  last  with  Oromasdes.    Lord  Byron 
was,  in  the  same  manner,  the  mediator  between  two  25 
generations,  between  two  hostile  poetical  sects.    Though 
always  sneering  at  Mr.  Wordsworth,  he  was  yet,  though 
perhaps    unconsciously,    the    interpreter    between    Mr. 
Wordsworth  and  the  multitude.    In  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
and  the  Excursion  Mr.  Wordsworth  appeared  as  the  30 
Prose — 13 


194  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

high  priest  of  a  worship,  of  which  nature  was  the  idol. 
No  poems  have  ever  indicated  a  more  exquisite  per- 
ception of  the  beauty  of  the  outer  world,  or  a  more 
passionate  love  and  reverence  for  that  beauty.  Yet 
5  they  were  not  popular;  and  it  is  not  likely  that  they  ever 
will  be  popular  as  the  poetry  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  pop- 
ular. The  feeling  which  pervaded  them  was  too  deep 
for  general  sympathy.  Their  style  was  often  too  mys- 
terious for  general  comprehension.  They  made  a  few 
io  esoteric  disciples,  and  many  scoffers.  Lord  Byron 
founded  what  may  be  called  an  exoteric  Lake  school; 
and  all  the  readers  of  verse  in  England,  we  might  say 
in  Europe,  hastened  to  sit  at  his  feet.  What  Mr.  Words- 
worth had  said  like  a  recluse,  Lord  Byron  said  like  a 
15  man  of  the  world,  with  less  profound  feeling,  but  with 
more  perspicuity,  energy,  and  conciseness.  We  would 
refer  our  readers  to  the  last  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold 
and  to  Manfred,  in  proof  of  these  observations. 

Lord  Byron,  like  Mr.  Wordsworth,  had  nothing  dra- 

20  matic  in  his  genius.     He  was  indeed  the  reverse  of  a 

great  dramatist,  the  very  antithesis  to  a  great  dramatist. 

All  his  characters,  Harold  looking  on  the  sky,  from  which 

his  country  and  the  sun  are  disappearing  together,  the 

Giaour,  standing  apart  in  the  gloom  of  the  side  aisle, 

25  and  casting  a  haggard  scowl  from  under  his  long  hood 

at  the  crucifix  and  the  censer,  Conrad  leaning  on  his 

sword  by  the  watch  tower,  Lara  smiling  on  the  dancers, 

Alp  gazing  steadily  on  the  fatal  cloud  as  it  passes  before 

the  moon,  Manfred  wandering  among  the  precipices  of 

30  Berne,   Azzo   on   the   judgment  seat,  Ugo  at   the  bar, 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  195 

Lambro  frowning  on  the  siesta  of  his  daughter  and 
Juan,  Cain  presenting  his  unacceptable  offering,  are 
essentially  the  same.  The  varieties  are  varieties  merely 
of  age,  situation,  and  outward  show.  If  ever  Lord 
Byron  attempted  to  exhibit  men  of  a  different  kind,  he  5 
always  made  them  either  insipid  or  unnatural.  Selim 
is  nothing.  Bonnivart  is  nothing.  Don  Juan,  in  the 
first  and  best  cantos,  is  a  feeble  copy  of  the  page  in  the 
Marriage  of  Figaro.  Johnson,  the  man  whom  Juan 
meets  in  the  slave-market,  is  a  most  striking  failure.  10 
How  differently  would  Sir  Walter  Scott  have  drawn  a 
bluff,  fearless  Englishman,  in  such  a  situation!  The 
portrait  would  have  seemed  to  walk  out  of  the  canvas. 

Sardanapalus  is  more  coarsely  drawn  than  any  dra- 
matic personage  that  we  can  remember.  His  heroism  15 
and  his  effeminacy,  his  contempt  of  death  and  his  dread 
of  a  weighty  helmet,  his  kingly  resolution  to  be  seen 
in  the  foremost  ranks,  and  the  anxiety  with  which  he 
calls  for  a  looking-glass,  that  he  may  be  seen  to  advan- 
tage, are  contrasted,  it  is  true,  with  all  the  point  of  20 
Juvenal.  Indeed,  the  hint  of  the  character  seems  to 
have  been  taken  from  what  Juvenal  says  of  Otho: 

"  Speculum  civilis  sarcina  belli. 
Nimirum  summi  ducis  est  occidere  Galbam, 
Et  curare  cutem  summi  constantia  civis,  25 

Bedriaci  in  campo  spolium  affectare  Palati, 
Et  pressum  in  faciem  digitis  extendere  panem." 

These  are  excellent  lines  in  a  satire.  But  it  is  not  the 
business  of  the  dramatist  to  exhibit  characters  in  this 
sharp  antithetical  way.    It  is  not  thus  that  Shakespeare  3° 


196  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

makes  Prince  Hal  rise  from  the  rake  of  Eastcheap  into 
the  hero  of  Shrewsbury,  and  sink  again  into  the  rake 
of  Eastcheap.  It  is  not  thus  that  Shakespeare  has  ex- 
hibited the  union  of  effeminacy  and  valor  in  Antony. 

5  A  dramatist  cannot  commit  a  greater  error  than  that 
of  following  those  pointed  descriptions  of  character  in 
which  satirists  and  historians  indulge  so  much.  It  is 
by  rejecting  what  is  natural  that  satirists  and  historians 
produce  these  striking  characters.     Their  great  object 

10  generally  is  to  ascribe  to  every  man  as  many  contra- 
dictory qualities  as  possible,  and  this  is  an  object  easily 
attained.  By  judicious  selection  and  judicious  exag- 
geration, the  intellect  and  the  disposition  of  any  human 
being  might  be  described  as  being  made  up  of  nothing 

15  but  startling  contrasts.  If  the  dramatist  attempts  to 
create  a  being  answering  to  one  of  these  descriptions,  he 
fails,  because  he  reverses  an  imperfect  analytical  process. 
He  produces,  not  a  man,  but  a  personified  epigram. 
Very  eminent  writers  have  fallen  into  this  snare.     Ben 

20  Jonson  has  given  us  a  Hermogenes,  taken  from  the  lively 
lines  of  Horace,  but  the  inconsistency  which  is  so  amus- 
ing in  the  satire  appears  unnatural  and  disgusts  us  in  the 
play.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  committed  a  far  more  glar- 
ing error  of  the  same  kind  in  the  novel  of  Peveril.    Ad 

25  miring,  as  every  judicious  reader  must  admire,  the  keen 
and  vigorous  lines  in  which  Dryden  satirized  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham,  Sir  Walter  attempted  to  make  a  Duke  of 
Buckingham  to  suit  them,  a  real  living  Zimri;  and  he 
made,  not  a  man,  but  the  most  grotesque  of  all  monsters. 

30  A  writer  who  should  attempt  to  introduce  into  a  play 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  I97 

or  a  novel  such  a  Wharton  as  the  Wharton  of  Pope, 
or  a  Lord  Hervey  answering  to  Sporus,  would  fail  in 
the  same  manner. 

But  to  return  to  Lord  Byron;  his  women,  like  his  men, 
are  all  of  one  breed.  Haidee  is  a  half-savage  and  girlish  5 
Julia;  Julia  is  a  civilized  and  matronly  Haidee.  Leila 
is  a  wedded  Zuleika,  Zuleika  a  virgin  Leila.  Gulnare  and 
Medora  appear  to  have  been  intentionally  opposed  to 
each  other.  Yet  the  difference  is  a  difference  of  situation 
only.  A  slight  change  of  circumstances  would,  it  should  10 
seem,  have  sent  Gulnare  to  the  lute  of  Medora,  and 
armed  Medora  with  the  dagger  of  Gulnare. 

It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say,  that  Lord  Byron  could 
exhibit  only  one  man  and  only  one  woman,  a  man  proud, 
moody,  cynical,  with  defiance  on  his  brow,  and  misery  15 
in  his  heart,  a  scorner  of  his  kind,  implacable  in  re- 
venge, yet  capable  of  deep  and  strong  affection:  a  woman 
all  softness  and  gentleness,  loving  to  caress  and  to  be 
caressed,  but  capable  of  being  transformed  by  passion 
into  a  tigress,  20 

Even  these  two  characters,  his  only  two  characters, 
he  could  not  exhibit  dramatically.  He  exhibited  them 
in  the  manner,  not  of  Shakespeare,  but  of  Clarendon. 
He  analyzed  them,  he  made  them  analyze  themselves; 
but  he  did  not  make  them  show  themselves.  We  are  25 
told,  for  example,  in  many  lines  of  great  force  and 
spirit,  that  the  speech  of  Lara  was  bitterly  sarcastic, 
that  he  talked  little  of  his  travels,  that  if  he  was  much 
questioned  about  them,  his  answers  became  short,  and 
his  brow  gloomy.    But  we  have  none  of  Lara's  sarcastic  30 


198  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

speeches  or  short  answers.  It  is  not  thus  that  the  great 
masters  of  human  nature  have  portrayed  human  beings. 
Homer  never  tells  us  that  Nestor  loved  to  relate  long 
stories  about  his  youth.  Shakespeare  never  tells  us 
5  that  in  the  mind  of  Iago  everything  that  is  beautiful  and 
endearing  was  associated  with  some  filthy  and  debasing 
idea. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  tendency  which  the  dialogue 
of  Lord  Byron  always  has  to  lose  its  character  of  a  dia- 

10  logue  and  to  become  soliloquy.  The  scenes  between 
Manfred  and  the  Chamois-hunter,  between  Manfred  and 
the  Witch  of  the  Alps,  between  Manfred  and  the  Abbot, 
are  instances  of  this  tendency.  Manfred,  after  a  few 
unimportant  speeches,  has  all  the  talk  to  himself.    The 

15  other  interlocutors  are  nothing  more  than  good  listeners. 
They  drop  an  occasional  question  or  ejaculation  which 
sets  Manfred  off  again  on  the  inexhaustible  topic  of  his 
personal  feelings.  If  we  examine  the  fine  passages  in 
Lord   Byron's   dramas,    the   description   of   Rome,   for 

20  example,  in  Manfred,  the  description  of  a  Venetian 
revel  in  Marino  Faliero,  the  concluding  invective  which 
the  old  doge  pronounces  against  Venice,  we  shall  find 
that  there  is  nothing  dramatic  in  these  speeches,  that 
they  derive  none  of  their  effect  from  the  character  or 

25  situation  of  the  speaker,  and  that  they  would  have  been 
as  fine,  or  finer,  if  they  had  been  published  as  fragments 
of  blank  verse  by  Lord  Byron.  There  is  scarcely  a 
speech  in  Shakespeare  of  which  the  same  could  be  said. 
No  skillful  reader   of   Shakespeare   can  endure  to   see 

30  what  are  called  the  fine  things  taken  out,  under  the 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  1 99 

name  of  "Beauties"  or  of  "Elegant  Extracts,"  or  to 
hear  any  single  passage,  "To  be  or  not  to  be,"  for  ex- 
ample, quoted  as  a  sample  of  the  great  poet.  "To  be 
or  not  to  be"  has  merit  undoubtedly  as  a  composition. 
It  would  have  merit  if  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  chorus.  5 
But  its  merit  as  a  composition  vanishes  when  compared 
with  its  merit  as  belonging  to  Hamlet.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  the  great  plays  of  Shakespeare  would  lose 
less  by  being  deprived  of  all  the  passages  which  are 
commonly  called  the  fine  passages,  than  those  passages  10 
lose  by  being  read  separately  from  the  play.  This  is 
perhaps  the  highest  praise  which  can  be  given  to  a 
dramatist. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  there 
is,  in  all  Lord  Byron's  plays,  a  single  remarkable  passage  15 
which  owes  any  portion  of  its  interest  or  effect  to  its 
connection  with  the  characters  or  the  action.     He  has 
written  only  one  scene,  as  far  as  we  can  recollect,  which 
is  dramatic  even  in  manner,  the  scene  between  Lucifer 
and  Cain.    The  conference  is  animated,  and  each  of  the  20 
interlocutors  has  a  fair  share  of  it.    But  this  scene,  when 
examined,  will  be  found  to  be  a  confirmation  of  our 
remarks.     It  is  a  dialogue  only  in  form.     It  is  a  solil- 
oquy in  essence.     It  is  in  reality  a  debate  carried  on 
within   one   single  unquiet  and  skeptical  mind.     The  25 
questions  and  the  answers,  the  objections  and  the  so- 
lutions, all  belong  to  the  same  character. 

A  writer  who  showed  so  little  dramatic  skill  in  works 
professedly  dramatic  was  not  likely  to  write  narrative 
with  dramatic  effect.     Nothing  could  indeed  be  more  30 


200  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

rude  and  careless  than  the  structure  of  his  narrative 
poems.  He  seems  to  have  thought,  with  the  hero  of  the 
Rehearsal,  that  the  plot  was  good  for  nothing  but  to 
bring  in  fine  things.  His  two  longest  works,  Childe 
5  Harold  and  Don  Juan,  have  no  plan  whatever.  Either 
of  them  might  have  been  extended  to  any  length,  or  cut 
short  at  any  point.  The  state  in  which  the  Giaour  ap- 
pears illustrates  the  manner  in  which  all  Byron's  poems 
were  constructed.     They  are  all,  like  the  Giaour,  col- 

10  lections  of  fragments;  and,  though  there  may  be  no 
empty  spaces  marked  by  asterisks,  it  is  still  easy  to  per- 
ceive, by  the  clumsiness  of  the  joining,  where  the  parts 
for  the  sake  of  which  the  whole  was  composed  end  and 
begin. 

15  It  was  in  description  and  meditation  that  Byron  ex- 
celled. "Description,"  as  he  said  in  Don  Juan,  "was 
his  forte."  His  manner  is  indeed  peculiar,  and  is  al- 
most unequaled;  rapid,  sketchy,  full  of  vigor;  the  se- 
lection happy;  the  strokes  few  and  bold.     In  spite  of 

20  the  reverence  which  we  feel  for  the  genius  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth we  cannot  but  think  that  the  minuteness  of  his 
descriptions  often  diminishes  their  effect.  He  has  ac- 
customed himself  to  gaze  on  nature  with  the  eye  of  a 
lover,  to  dwell  on  every   feature,  and  to  mark  every 

25  change  of  aspect.  Those  beauties  which  strike  the  most 
negligent  observer,  and  those  which  only  a  close  atten- 
tion discovers,  are  equally  familiar  to  him  and  are  equally 
prominent  in  his  poetry.  The  proverb  of  old  Hesiod, 
that  half  is  often  more  than  the  whole,  is  eminently 

30  applicable   to  description.     The   policy  of  the   Dutch 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  201 

who  cut  down  most  of  the  precious  trees  in  the  Spice 
Islands,  in  order  to  raise  the  value  of  what  remained, 
was  a  policy  which  poets  would  do  well  to  imitate.  It 
was  a  policy  which  no  poet  understood  better  than 
Lord  Byron.  Whatever  his  faults  might  be,  he  was  5 
never,  while  his  mind  retained  its  vigor,  accused  of 
prolixity. 

His  descriptions,  great  as  was  their  intrinsic  merit, 
derived  their  principal  interest  from  the  feeling  which 
always  mingled  with  them.     He  was  himself  the  be-  10 
ginning,  the  middle,  and  the  end,  of  all  his  own  poetry, 
the  hero  of  every  tale,  the  chief  object  in  every  land- 
scape.    Harold,  Lara,  Manfred,  and  a  crowd  of  other 
characters,  were  universally  considered  merely  as  loose 
incognitos  of  Byron;  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  15 
that  he  meant  them  to  be  so  considered.    The  wonders 
of  the  outer  world,  the  Tagus,  with  the  mighty  fleets 
of  England  riding  on  its  bosom,  the  towers  of  Cintra 
overhanging  the   shaggy  forest  of  cork  trees  and  wil- 
lows, the  glaring  marble  of  Pentelicus,  the  banks  of  the  20 
Rhine,  the  glaciers  of  Clarens,  the  sweet  Lake  of  Leman, 
the  dell  of  Egeria  with  its  summer  birds  and  rustling 
lizards,   the  shapeless  ruins  of  Rome  overgrown  with 
ivy  and  wallflowers,  the  stars,  the  sea,  the  mountains, 
all  were  mere  accessaries,  the  background  to  one  dark  25 
and  melancholy  figure. 

Never  had  any  writer  so  vast  a  command  of  the  whole 
eloquence  of  scorn,  misanthropy,  and  despair.  That 
Marah  was  never  dry.  No  art  could  sweeten,  no  draughts 
could  exhaust,  its  perennial  waters  of  bitterness.    Never  30 


202  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

was  there  such  variety  in  monotony  as  that  of  Byron. 
From   maniac   laughter  to   piercing  lamentation,   there 
was  not  a  single  note  of  human  anguish  of  which  he  was 
not  master.     Year  after  year,  and  month  after  month, 
5  he  continued  to  repeat  that  to  be  wretched  is  the  destiny 
of  all;  that  to  be  eminently  wretched  is  the  destiny  of 
the  eminent;  that  all  the  desires  by  which  we  are  cursed 
lead  alike  to  misery,  if  they  are  not  gratified,  to  the  misery 
of  disappointment,  if  they  are  gratified,  to  the  misery 
io  of  satiety.     His  heroes  are  men  who  have  arrived  by 
different  roads  at  the  same  goal  of  despair,  who  are 
sick  of  life,  who  are  at  war  with  society,  who  are  sup- 
ported in  their  anguish  only  by  an  unconquerable  pride 
resembling  that  of  Prometheus  on  the  rock  or  of  Satan 
15  in  the  burning  marl,  who  can  master  their  agonies  by 
the  force  of  their  will,  and  who,  to  the  last,  defy  the  whole 
power  of  earth  and  heaven.    He  always  described  him- 
self as  a  man  of  the  same  kind  with  his  favorite  creations, 
as  a  man  whose  heart  had  been  withered,  whose  capacity 
20  for  happiness  was  gone  and  could  not  be  restored,  but 
whose  invincible  spirit  dared  the  worst  that  could  be- 
fall him  here  or  hereafter. 

How  much  of  this  morbid  feeling  sprang  from  an 
original  disease  of  the  mind,  how  much  from  real  mis- 
25  fortune,  how  much  from  the  nervousness  of  dissipation, 
how  much  was  fanciful,  how  much  was  merely  affected, 
it  is  impossible  for  us,  and  would  probably  have  been 
impossible  for  the  most  intimate  friends  of  Lord  Byron, 
to  decide.  Whether  there  ever  existed,  or  can  ever 
30  exist,  a  person  answering  to  the  description  which  he 


LIFE  OF  LORD   BYRON  203 

gave  of  himself  may  be  doubted;  but  that  he  was  not 

such  a  person  is  beyond  all  doubt.     It  is  ridiculous  to 

imagine  that  a   man   whose   mind   was  really  imbued 

with  scorn  of  his  fellow-creatures  would  have  published 

three  or  four  books  every  year  in  order  to  tell  them  so;    5 

or  that  a  man  who  could  say  with  truth  that  he  neither 

sought  sympathy  nor  needed  it  would  have  admitted 

all  Europe  to  hear  his  farewell  to  his  wife,  and  his 

blessings  on  his  child.     In  the  second  canto  of  Childe 

Harold,  he  tells  us  that  he  is  insensible  to  fame  and  10 

obloquy : 

"  111  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move, 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproof  nor  partial  praise." 

Yet  we  know  on  the  best  evidence  that,  a  day  or  two 
before  he  published  these  lines,  he  was  greatly,  indeed  15 
childishly,  elated  by  the  compliments  paid  to  his  maiden 
speech  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

We  are  far,  however,  from  thinking  that  his  sadness 
was  altogether  feigned.  He  was  naturally  a  man  of 
great  sensibility;  he  had  been  ill  educated;  his  feelings  20 
had  been  early  exposed  to  sharp  trials;  he  had  been 
crossed  in  his  boyish  love;  he  had  been  mortified  by  the 
failure  of  his  first  literary  efforts;  he  was  straitened  in 
pecuniary  circumstances;  he  was  unfortunate  in  his  do- 
mestic relations;  the  public  treated  him  with  cruel  in-  25 
justice;  his  health  and  spirits  suffered  from  his  dissi- 
pated habits  of  life;  he  was  on  the  whole,  an  unhappy 
man.  He  early  discovered  that,  by  parading  his  unhap- 
piness  before  the  multitude,  he  produced  an  immense 
sensation.    The  world  gave  him  every  encouragement  to  30 


204  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

talk  about  his  mental  sufferings.  The  interest  which 
his  first  confessions  excited  induced  him  to  affect  much 
that  he  did  not  feel;  and  the  affectation  probably  re- 
acted on  his  feelings.  How  far  the  character  in  which 
5  he  exhibited  himself  was  genuine,  and  how  far  theatrical, 
it  would  probably  have  puzzled  himself  to  say. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  remarkable  man 
owed  the  vast  influence  which  he  exercised  over  his  con- 
temporaries at  least  as  much  to  his  gloomy  egotism  as 

10  to  the  real  power  of  his  poetry.  We  never  could  very 
clearly  understand  how  it  is  that  egotism,  so  unpopular 
in  conversation,  should  be  so  popular  in  writing;  or  how 
it  is  that  men  who  affect  in  their  compositions  qualities 
and  feelings  which  they  have  not,  impose  so  much  more 

15  easily  on  their  contemporaries  than  on  posterity.  The 
interest  which  the  loves  of  Petrarch  excited  in  his  own 
time,  and  the  pitying  fondness  with  which  half  Europe 
looked  upon  Rousseau,  are  well  known.  To  readers 
of  our  age,  the  love  of  Petrarch  seems  to  have  been  love 

20  of  that  kind  which  breaks  no  hearts,  and  the  sufferings 
of  Rousseau  to  have  deserved  laughter  rather  than  pity, 
to  have  been  partly  counterfeited,  and  partly  the  con- 
sequences of  his  own  perverseness  and  vanity. 

What  our  grandchildren  may  think  of  the  character 

25  of  Lord  Byron,  as  exhibited  in  his  poetry,  we  will  not 
pretend  to  guess.  It  is  certain  that  the  interest  which 
he  excited  during  his  life  is  without  a  parallel  in  literary 
history.  The  feeling  with  which  young  readers  of 
poetry  regard  him  can  be  conceived  only  by  those  who 

30  have  experienced  it.    To  people  who  are  unacquainted 


LIFE   OF   LORD   BYRON  205 

with  real  calamity,  "nothing  is  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely 
melancholy."  This  faint  image  of  sorrow  has  in  all 
ages  been  considered  by  young  gentlemen  as  an  agree- 
able excitement.  Old  gentlemen  and  middle-aged  gentle- 
men have  so  many  real  causes  of  sadness  that  they  are  5 
rarely  inclined  "to  be  as  sad  as  night  only  for  wanton- 
ness." Indeed  they  want  the  power  almost  as  much 
as  the  inclination.  We  know  very  few  persons  engaged 
in  active  life  who,  even  if  they  were  to  procure  stools 
to  be  melancholy  upon,  and  were  to  sit  down  with  all  ic 
the  premeditation  of  Master  Stephen,  would  be  able 
to  enjoy  much  of  what  somebody  calls  the  "ecstasy  of 
woe." 

Among  that  large  class  of  young  persons  whose  read- 
ing is  almost  entirely  confined  to  works  of  imagination,  15 
the  popularity  of  Lord  Byron  was  unbounded.  They 
bought  pictures  of  him;  they  treasured  up  the  smallest 
relics  of  him;  they  learned  his  poems  by  heart,  and  did 
their  best  to  write  like  him,  and  to  look  like  him.  Many 
of  them  practiced  at  the  glass  in  the  hope  of  catching  20 
the  curl  of  the  upper  lip,  and  the  scowl  of  the  brow, 
which  appear  in  some  of  his  portraits.  A  few  discarded 
their  neckcloths  in  imitation  of  their  great  leader.  For 
some  years  the  Minerva  press  sent  forth  no  novel  with- 
out a  mysterious,  unhappy,  Lara-like  peer.  The  num-  25 
ber  of  hopeful  undergraduates  and  medical  students 
who  became  things  of  dark  imaginings,  on  whom  the 
freshness  of  the  heart  ceased  to  fall  like  dew,  whose 
passions  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust,  and  to  whom 
the  relief  of  tears  was  denied,   passes  all  calculation.  30 


206  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

This  was  not  the  worst.  There  was  created  in  the 
minds  of  many  of  these  enthusiasts  a  pernicious  and 
absurd  association  between  intellectual  power  and 
moral  depravity.  From  the  poetry  of  Lord  Byron  they 
5  drew  a  system  of  ethics,  compounded  of  misanthropy 
and  voluptuousness,  a  system  in  which  the  two  great 
commandments  were,  to  hate  your  neighbor,  and  to  love 
your  neighbor's  wife. 

This  affectation  has  passed  away;  and  a  few  more 

10  years  will  destroy  whatever  yet  remains  of  that  magical 
potency  which  once  belonged  to  the  name  of  Byron. 
To  us  he  is  still  a  man,  young,  noble,  and  unhappy. 
To  our  children  he  will  be  merely  a  writer;  and  their 
impartial    judgment    will    appoint    his     place    among 

15  writers,  without  regard  to  his  rank  or  to  his  private 
history.  That  his  poetry  will  undergo  a  severe  sifting, 
that  much  of  what  has  been  admired  by  his  contem- 
poraries will  be  rejected  as  worthless,  we  have  little 
doubt.     But  we  have  as  little  doubt,  that,  after  the 

20  closest  scrutiny,  there  will  still  remain  much  that  can 
only  perish  with  the  English  language. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

[William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  acknowledged  by  general 
agreement  to  be  one  of  the  three  or  four  greatest  English  novelists, 
was  born  in  Calcutta  in  1811.  Educated  at  Cambridge  and  by 
travel  on  the  continent,  he  received  his  first  recognition  in  the  col- 
umns of  Fraser's  Magazine.  From  1832  until  his  death  in  1863, 
Thackeray  was  indefatigable  as  a  writer,  and  literally  thousands 
of  pages  fell  from  his  pen.  For  Punch,  Thackeray  wrote  his 
Book  of  Snobs  which  is  in  some  respects  his  most  characteristic 
work.  Thackeray's  novels,  among  which  Vanity  Fair,  Pendennis, 
Henry  Esmond,  and  Barry  Lyndon  are  the  best,  are  well  known 
wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken.] 

The  essay  before  us  was  the  first  in  the  series  entitled 
The  English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  and 
was  delivered  by  the  author  in  England  and  America  in 
the  years  1851  and  1852.  The  essays  were  published  in 
1853  and  form  Thackeray's  most  considerable  contri- 
bution to  formal  criticism. 

Charming  as  they  are,  these  lectures  on  the  English 
Humorists  and  the  succeeding  lectures  on  the  Four 
Georges  can  hardly  be  considered  perfectly  representative 
of  Thackeray's  style.  In  the  first  place  they  were  de- 
livered with  a  frankly  conciliatory  intent.  Though  pug- 
nacious in  his  books,  Thackeray  was  personally  the 
gentlest  and  most  lovable  of  men.  He  was  constitu- 
tionally as  incapable  of  carrying  to  the  public  platform 
the  keen,  cool,  and  biting  satire  of  his  written  essays  as 
he  was  unable  to  play  the  satirist  at  the  dinner  table. 

For  these  reasons  the  lectures  are  a  little  unlike  Thack- 
eray's written  style.     But  they  are  perhaps  even  more 

207 


2o8  NINETEENTH    CENTURY   PROSE 

representative  of  the  man  than  some  of  his  other  work. 
They  show  him  in  his  private  as  well  as  in  his  public 
aspects.  They  show  his  keen  insight  turned  to  the  pur- 
suits of  loving  sympathy,  his  militant  honesty  of  convic- 
tion arming  itself  for  a  braver  battle  than  that  of  satire 
and  innuendo.  They  show,  further,  that  however  much 
Thackeray  hated  sin  in  the  abstract,  he  loved  men.  He 
despised  none  of  the  characters  of  his  novels — else  why 
did  he  so  enjoy  depicting  the  rogue  ?  Much  less  could  he 
offend  the  prejudices  of  any  of  his  hearers  as  he  stood  on 
the  platform  before  them. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that,  judged  from  the  view 
point  of  objective  art,  the  essay  on  Swift  would  be  im- 
proved were  not  the  attitude  of  the  author  so  candidly 
a  personal  one.  As  it  is,  the  author  is  led  to  an  exag- 
geration of  the  criteria  of  private  judgment  to  the  detri- 
ment of  the  larger  critical  purposes  of  the  essay.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Thackeray  was  not  a  literary  critic  in  the 
narrow  sense  of  the  word.  In  spite  of  himself  he  con- 
tinually slips  back  from  a  consideration  of  an  author's 
work  to  the  man  behind  the  book.  This  fact  should  be 
kept  in  mind  by  the  reader  who  thinks  to  read  in  the 
following  essay  a  judicious  critique  on  the  work  of  the 
great  eighteenth-century  Dean.  In  the  Dean's  work, 
Thackeray  is  only  secondarily  interested.  He  grants 
its  immense  force,  he  stands  in  awe  of  the  genius  dis- 
played, but  speculations  on  the  author  continually  ob- 
trude. He  even  misinterprets  the  book  in  looking  for 
the  man,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  way  he  quite  unfairly 
reprehends  Swift's  satire  on  the  eating  of  children. 

Because  he  had  his  audience  always  in  view  and  ob- 
served perhaps  just  a  trifle  too  much  the  rigors  of  a  popu- 
lar and  conventional  morality,  the  tone  of  Thackeray's 
essay  is  thoroughly  monochromatic.  The  entire  criti- 
cism is  apparently  delivered  under  the  influence  of  a 
certain  mood.     There  is  throughout  the  essay  the  pa 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY        209 

thetic  sense  of  "dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with," 
which  Thackeray  so  well  knew  how  to  assume.  With  the 
eighteenth  century  he  was  thoroughly  at  home.  His 
essay,  therefore,  gives  the  impression  not  of  the  didactic 
propounding  of  facts,  but  of  discursive  conversation  on 
a  loved  topic  by  one  who  is  steeped  in  it.  This  mono- 
chromatic tone  is  difficult  to  carry.  It  gives  the  reader 
too  much  the  sense  that  the  emotion  has  been  built  on 
preconceived  ideas.  It  is  for  this  reason  that,  while 
the  present  essay  deals  far  more  with  Swift  than  with  his 
work,  it  hardly  gives  a  true  picture  of  Swift.  The  sketch 
is  too  impressionistic.  The  pathetic  isolated  elements  of 
the  Dean's  character  are  thrown  into  strong  relief  be- 
cause they  adapt  themselves  best  with  Thackeray's 
mood.  But  the  great  Dean  has  other  sides  that  could 
never  be  interpreted  by  the  minor  chords  in  which 
Thackeray  chose  to  play.  As  a  consideration  of  these 
would  have  violated  the  unity  of  his  spiritual  impres- 
sion, Thackeray  has  for  them  never  a  word. 

As  truly  as  of  any  other  author  represented  in  this 
book,  it  may  be  said  that  Thackeray's  style  is  an  indi- 
vidual thing.  For  this  reason  it  is  hardly  to  be  held 
up  as  a  model  for  imitation  by  students.  Many  of  the 
fundamental  rules  of  the  rhetorics,  Thackeray  violated 
continually;  like  Scott,  he  could  afford  to  do  so.  As  with 
Fielding,  the  reader  was  very  close  to  Thackeray's  elbow 
as  he  wrote.  For  this  reason  his  composition  is  conver- 
sational, discursive,  and  prolix.  It  touches  with  equal 
ease  the  springs  of  laughter  and  of  tears.  Sometimes 
the  author  purposely  permits  himself  to  become  hope- 
lessly involved,  in  order  that  in  mid-sentence  he  may 
start  anew  with  a  climacteric  "I  say."  Thackeray 
flashes  from  thought  to  thought  as  his  fancy  leads  him. 
Sometimes  his  impressionism  of  treatment  might  seem 
thinly  to  veil  superficiality  of  knowledge.  "The  Boyne 
was  being  fought  and  won,  and  lost,"  he  writes  in  hasty 
Prose — 14 


2IO  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

summary.  Sometimes,  like  Hazlitt,  he  breaks  out  into 
a  string  of  epithets,  dubbing  in  allusion  the  manifold 
characteristics  of  the  times,  "  the  worthlessness  of  all  man- 
kind, the  pettiness,  cruelty,  pride,  imbecility,  the  general 
vanity,  the  foolish  pretension,  the  mock  greatness,  the 
pompous  dullness." 

The  gifts  for  which  Thackeray  stood  preeminent  may 
easily  be  pushed  into  bathos  and  burlesque.  To  these 
discreditable  ends  many  of  Thackeray's  imitators  have 
come.  Indeed,  Thackeray  did  not  himself  remain  on 
the  right  side  of  the  line  that  divides  the  deep  from  shallow 
emotion.  Sometimes  he  seems  to  be  hypnotized  by  his 
own  mood.  Then  his  subject  becomes  a  mere  expedient 
for  the  spinning  of  the  attenuated  Thackerayan  fancies. 
But  though  it  is  sometimes  finespun,  Thackeray's  feeling 
is  never  insincere;  his  laughter  always  rings  sure  and  true. 

The  best  thing  in  an  essay  of  Thackeray's  is  the  man 
himself.  In  the  essay  on  Swift  there  is  seen  more  of 
Thackeray  than  of  Swift,  and,  all  in  all,  the  impression  of 
the  former  is  the  truer  one.  It  is  easy  enough  to  domi- 
nate a  style  with  force;  it  is  more  difficult  to  dominate  it 
with  sweetness  and  smiles.  Perhaps  no  one  outside  of 
Lamb  has  done  this  so  well  as  Thackeray  has  done  it. 
In  Thackeray's  style  we  see  the  complex  though  lu- 
minous intelligence,  the  untiring  energy,  the  unerring 
keenness,  and  the  philosophical  poise  of  the  man  him- 
self. 


SWIFT 

In  treating  of  the  English  humorists  of  the  past  age, 
it  is  of  the  men  and  of  their  lives,  rather  than  of  their 
books,  that  I  ask  permission  to  speak  to  you;  and  in 
doing  so,  you  are  aware  that  I  cannot  hope  to  entertain 


SWIFT  211 

you  with  a  merely  humorous  or  facetious  story.  Harle- 
quin without  his  mask  is  known  to  present  a  very  sober 
countenance,  and  was  himself,  the  story  goes,  the  melan- 
choly patient  whom  the  Doctor  advised  to  go  and  see 
Harlequin— a  man  full  of  cares  and  perplexities  like  5 
the  rest  of  us,  whose  Self  must  always  be  serious  to  him, 
under  whatever  mask  or  disguise  or  uniform  he  presents 
it  to  the  public.  And  as  all  of  you  here  must  needs  be 
grave  when  you  think  of  your  own  past  and  present, 
you  will  not  look  to  find,  in  the  histories  of  those  whose  10 
lives  and  feelings  I  am  going  to  try  and  describe  to  you, 
a  story  that  is  otherwise  than  serious,  and  often  very 
sad.  If  Humor  only  meant  laughter,  you  would  scarcely 
feel  more  interest  about  humorous  writers  than  about 
the  private  life  of  poor  Harlequin  just  mentioned,  who  15 
possesses  in  common  with  these  the  power  of  making 
you  laugh.  But  the  men  regarding  whose  lives  and 
stories  your  kind  presence  here  shows  that  you  have 
curiosity  and  sympathy,  appeal  to  a  great  number  of 
our  other  faculties,  besides  our  mere  sense  of  ridicule.  20 
The  humorous  writer  professes  to  awaken  and  direct 
your  love,  your  pity,  your  kindness — your  scorn  for  un- 
truth, pretension,  imposture — your  tenderness  for  the 
weak,  the  poor,  the  oppressed,  the  unhappy.  To  the 
best  of  his  means  and  ability  he  comments  on  all  the  25 
ordinary  actions  and  passions  of  life  almost.  He  takes 
upon  himself  to  be  the  week-day  preacher,  so  to  speak. 
Accordingly,  as  he  finds,  and  speaks,  and  feels  the  truth 
best,  we  regard  him,  esteem  him — sometimes  love  him. 
And,  as  his  business  is  to  mark  other  people's  lives  and  30 


212  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

peculiarities,  we  moralize  upon  his  life  when  he  is  gone — 
and  yesterday's  preacher  becomes  the  text  for  to-day's 
sermon. 

Of  English  parents,  and  of  a  good  English  family 
5  of  clergymen,  Swift  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1667,  seven 
months  after  the  death  of  his  father,  who  had  come  to 
practice  there  as  a  lawyer.  The  boy  went  to  school  at 
Kilkenny,  and  afterwards  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
where  he  got  a  degree  with  difficulty,  and  was  wild,  and 

10  witty,  and  poor.  In  1688,  by  the  recommendation  of 
his  mother,  Swift  was  received  into  the  family  of  Sir 
William  Temple,  who  had  known  Mrs.  Swift  in  Ireland. 
He  left  his  patron  in  1694,  and  the  next  year  took  or- 
ders in  Dublin.    But  he  threw  up  the  small  Irish  pre- 

15  ferment  which  he  got  and  returned  to  Temple,  in  whose 
family  he  remained  until  Sir  William's  death  in  1699. 
His  hopes  of  advancement  in  England  failing,  Swift 
returned  to  Ireland,  and  took  the  living  of  Laracor. 
Hither   he  invited   Hester   Johnson,    Temple's  natural 

20  daughter,  with  whom  he  had  contracted  a  tender  friend- 
ship, while  they  were  both  dependents  of  Temple's. 
And  with  an  occasional  visit  to  England,  Swift  now 
passed  nine  years  at  home. 

In  1709  he  came  to  England  and,  with  a  brief  visit 

25  to  Ireland,  during  which  he  took  possession  of  his  deanery 
of  St.  Patrick,  he  now  passed  five  years  in  England, 
taking  the  most  distinguished  part  in  the  political 
transactions  which  terminated  with  the  death  of  Queen 
Anne.     After  her  death,  his  party  disgraced,  and  his 

30  hopes  of  ambition  over,  Swift  returned  to  Dublin,  where 


SWIFT  213 

he  remained  twelve  years.  In  this  time  he  wrote  the 
famous  Drapier's  Letters  and  Gulliver's  Travels.  He 
married  Hester  Johnson,  Stella,  and  buried  Esther 
Vanhomrigh,  Vanessa,  who  had  followed  him  to  Ire- 
land from  London,  where  she  had  contracted  a  violent  5 
passion  for  him.  In  1726  and  1727  Swift  was  in  England, 
which  he  quitted  for  the  last  time  on  hearing  of  his 
wife's  illness.  Stella  died  in  January,  1728,  and  Swift 
not  until  1745,  having  passed  the  last  five  of  the  seventy- 
eight  years  of  his  life  with  an  impaired  intellect  and  10 
keepers  to  watch  him. 

You  know,  of  course,  that  Swift  has  had  many  biog- 
raphers; his  life  has  been  told  by  the  kindest  and  most 
good-natured  of  men,  Scott,  who  admires  but  can't 
bring  himself  to  love  him;  and  by  stout  old  Johnson,  15 
who,  forced  to  admit  him  into  the  company  of  poets, 
receives  the  famous  Irishman,  and  takes  off  his  hat  to 
him  with  a  bow  of  surly  recognition,  scans  him  from 
head  to  foot,  and  passes  over  to  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  Dr.  Wilde  of  Dublin,  who  has  written  a  most  20 
interesting  volume  on  the  closing  years  of  Swift's  life, 
calls  Johnson  "the  most  malignant  of  his  biographers:" 
it  is  not  easy  for  an  English  critic  to  please  Irishmen — 
perhaps  to  try  and  please  them.  And  yet  Johnson  truly 
admires  Swift:  Johnson  does  not  quarrel  with  Swift's  25 
change  of  politics,  or  doubt  his  sincerity  of  religion: 
about  the  famous  Stella  and  Vanessa  controversy  the 
Doctor  does  not  bear  very  hardly  on  Swift.  But  he  could 
not  give  the  Dean  that  honest  hand  of  his;  the  stout 
old  man  puts  it  into  his  breast,  and  moves  off  from  him.  30 


214  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

Would  we  have  liked  to  live  with  him?  That  is  a 
question  which  in  dealing  with  these  people's  works, 
and  thinking  (if  their  lives  and  peculiarities,  every  reader 
of  biographies  must  put  to  himself.     Would  you  have 

5  liked  to  be  a  friend  of  the  great  Dean?  I  should  like  to 
have  been  Shakespeare's  shoeblack — just  to  have  lived 
in  his  house,  just  to  have  worshiped  him — to  have  run 
on  his  errands,  and  seen  that  sweet  serene  face.  I  should 
like,  as  a  young  man,  to  have  lived  on  Fielding's  stair- 

io  case  in  the  Temple,  and  after  helping  him  up  to  bed 
perhaps,  and  opening  his  door  with  his  latchkey,  to 
have  shaken  hands  with  him  in  the  morning,  and  heard 
him  talk  and  crack  jokes  over  his  breakfast  and  his  mug 
of  small  beer.    Who  would  not  give  something  to  pass 

iS  a  night  at  the  club  with  Johnson,  and  Goldsmith,  and 
James  Boswell,  Esq.,  of  Auchinleck?  The  charm  of 
Addison's  companionship  and  conversation  has  passed  to 
us  by  fond  tradition — but  Swift?  If  you  had  been  his 
inferior  in  parts  (and  that,  with  a  great  respect  for  all 

20  persons  present,  I  fear  is  only  very  likely),  his  equal  in 
mere  social  station,  he  would  have  bullied,  scorned,  and 

',  insulted  you;  if,  undeterred  by  his  great  reputation,  you 
had  met  him  like  a  man,  he  would  have  quailed  before 
you,  and  not  had  the  pluck  to  reply,  and  gone  home, 

25  and  years  after  written  a  foul  epigram  about  you — 
watched  for  you  in  a  sewer,  and  come  out  to  assail  you 
with  a  coward's  blow  and  a  dirty  bludgeon.  If  you  had 
been  a  lord  with  a  blue  ribbon,  who  flattered  his  vanity, 
or  could  help  his  ambition,  he  would  have  been  the  most 

30  delightful  company  in  the  world.    He  would  have  been 


SWIFT  215 

so  manly,  so  sarcastic,  so  bright,  odd,  and  original,  that 
you  might  think  he  had  no  object  in  view  but  the  in- 
dulgence of  his  humor,  and  that  he  was  the  most  reck- 
less, simple  creature  in  the  world.  How  he  would  have 
torn  your  enemies  to  pieces  for  you!  and  made  fun  of  the  5 
Opposition!  His  servility  was  so  boisterous  that  it 
looked  like  independence;  he  would  have  done  your 
errands,  but  with  the  air  of  patronizing  you,  and  after 
fighting  your  battles,  masked,  in  the  street  or  the  press, 
would  have  kept  on  his  hat  before  your  wife  and  daugh-  10 
ters  in  the  drawing-room,  content  to  take  that  sort  of 
pay  for  his  tremendous  services  as  a  bravo. 

He  says  as  much  himself  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Boling- 
broke: — "All  my  endeavors  to  distinguish  myself  were 
only  for  want  of  a  great  title  and  fortune,  that  I  might  15 
be  used  like  a  lord  by  those  who  have  an  opinion  of  my 
parts;  whether  right  or  wrong  is  no  great  matter.  And 
so  the  reputation  of  wit  and  great  learning  does  the  office 
of  a  blue  ribbon  or  a  coach  and  six." 

Could  there  be  a  greater  candor  ?  It  is  an  outlaw  who  20 
says,  "These  are  my  brains;  with  these  I'll  win  titles 
and  compete  with  fortune.  These  are  my  bullets;  these 
I'll  turn  into  gold;"  and  he  hears  the  sound  of  coaches 
and  six,  takes  the  road  like  Macheath,  and  makes  so- 
ciety stand  and  deliver.  Thev  are  all  on  their  knees  25 
before  him.  Down  go  my  lord  bishop's  apron,  and  his 
Grace's  blue  ribbon,  and  my  lady's  brocade  petticoat 
in  the  mud.  He  eases  the  one  of  a  living,  the  other  of  a 
patent  place,  the  third  of  a  little  snug  post  about  the 
Court,  and  gives  them  over  to  followers  of  his  own.    The  30 


2l6  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

great  prize  has  not  come  yet.  The  coach  with  the  miter 
and  crosier  in  it,  which  he  intends  to  have  for  his  share, 
has  been  delayed  on  the  way  from  St.  James's;  and  he 
waits  and  waits  until  nightfall,  when  his  runners  come 
5  and  tell  him  that  the  coach  has  taken  a  different  road, 
and  escaped  him.  So  he  fires  his  pistols  into  the  air  with 
a  curse,  and  rides  away  into  his  own  country. 

Swift's  seems  to  me  to  be  as  good  a  name  to  point  a 
moral  or  adorn  a  tale  of  ambition,  as  any  hero's  that 

io  ever  lived  and  failed.  But  we  must  remember  that  the 
morality  was  lax — that  other  gentlemen  besides  himself 
took  the  road  in  his  day — that  public  society  was  in  a 
strange  disordered  condition,  and  the  State  was  ravaged 
by  other  condottieri.    The  Boyne  was  being  fought  and 

15  won,  and  lost — the  bells  rung  in  William's  victory,  in 
the  very  same  tone  with  which  they  would  have  pealed 
for  James's.  Men  were  loose  upon  politics,  and  had  to 
shift  for  themselves.  They,  as  well  as  old  beliefs  and 
institutions,  had  lost  their  moorings  and  gone  adrift  in 

20  the  storm.  As  in  the  South  Sea  Bubble,  almost  every- 
body gambled;  as  in  the  Railway  mania — not  many 
centuries  ago — almost  every  one  took  his  unlucky  share: 
a  man  of  that  time,  of  the  vast  talents  and  ambition  of 
Swift,  could  scarce  do  otherwise  than  grasp  at  his  prize, 

25  and  make  his  spring  at  his  opportunity.  His  bitterness, 
his  scorn,  his  rage,  his  subsequent  misanthropy,  are 
ascribed  by  some  panegyrists  to  a  deliberate  conviction 
of  mankind's  unworthiness,  and  a  desire  to  amend  them 
by  castigating.    His  youth  was  bitter,  as  that  of  a  great 

3°  genius  bound  down  by  ignoble  ties,  and  powerless  in  a 


SWIFT  217 

mean  dependence;  his  age  was  bitter,  like  that  of  a  great 
genius  that  had  fought  the  battle  and  nearly  won  it, 
and  lost  it,  and  thought  of  it  afterwards  writhing  in  a 
lonely  exile.  A  man  may  attribute  to  the  gods,  if  he 
likes,  what  is  caused  by  his  own  fury,  or  disappoint-  5 
ment,  or  self-will.  What  public  man — what  statesman 
projecting  a  coup — what  king  determined  on  an  inva- 
sion of  his  neighbor — what  satirist  meditating  an  on- 
slaught on  society  or  an  individual,  can't  give  a  pretext 
for  his  move?  There  was  a  French  general  the  other  10 
day  who  proposed  to  march  into  this  country  and  put 
it  to  sack  and  pillage,  in  revenge  for  humanity  outraged 
by  our  conduct  at  Copenhagen:  there  is  always  some 
excuse  for  men  of  the  aggressive  turn.  They  are  of  their 
nature  warlike,  predatory,  eager  for  fight,  plunder,  do-  15 
minion. 

As  fierce  a  beak  and  talon  as  ever  struck — as  strong 
a  wing  as  ever  beat,  belonged  to  Swift.  I  am  glad,  for 
one,  that  fate  wrested  the  prey  out  of  his  claws,  and  cut 
his  wings  and  chained  him.  One  can  gaze,  and  not  20 
without  awe  and  pity,  at  the  lonely  eagle  chained  be- 
hind the  bars. 

That  Swift  was  born  at  No.  7  Hoey's  Court,  Dublin, 
on  the  30th  November,  1667,  is  a  certain  fact,  of  which 
nobody  will  deny  the  sister  island  the  honor  and  glory;  25 
but,  it  seems  to  me,  he  was  no  more  an  Irishman  than 
a  man  born  of  English  parents  at  Calcutta  is  a  Hindoo. 
Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman,  and  always  an  Irishman: 
Steele  was  an  Irishman,  and  always  an  Irishman: 
Swift's  heart  was  English  and  in  England,  his  habits  30 


2l8  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

English,  his  logic  eminently  English;  his  statement  is 
elaborately  simple;  he  shuns  tropes  and  metaphors,  and 
uses  his  ideas  and  words  with  a  wise  thrift  and  economy, 
as  he  used  his  money:  with  which  he  could  be  generous 
5  and  splendid  upon  great  occasions,  but  which  he  hus- 
banded when  there  was  no  need  to  spend  it.  He  never 
indulges  in  needless  extravagance  of  rhetoric,  lavish 
epithets,  profuse  imagery.  He  lays  his  opinion  before 
you   with  a  grave  simplicity  and  a   perfect   neatness. 

10  Dreading  ridicule  too,  as  a  man  of  his  humor — above 
all  an  Englishman  of  his  humor — certainly  would,  he 
is  afraid  to  use  the  poetical  power  which  he  really  pos- 
sessed; one  often  fancies  in  reading  him  that  he  dares 
not  be  eloquent  when  he  might;  that  he  does  not  speak 

15  above  his  voice,  as  it  were,  and  the  tone  of  society. 

His  initiation  into  politics,  his  knowledge  of  business, 
his  knowledge  of  polite  life,  his  acquaintance  with  litera- 
ture even,  which  he  could  not  have  pursued  very  sedu- 
lously during  that  reckless  career  at  Dublin,  Swift  got 

20  under  the  roof  of  Sir  William  Temple.  He  was  fond  of 
telling  in  after  life  what  quantities  of  books  he  devoured 
there,  and  how  King  William  taught  him  to  cut  aspara- 
gus in  the  Dutch  fashion.  It  was  at  Shene  and  at  Moor 
Park,  with  a  salary  of  twenty  pounds  and  a  dinner  at 

25  the  upper  servants'  table,  that  this  great  and  lonely 
Swift  passed  a  ten  years'  apprenticeship — wore  a  cas- 
sock that  was  only  not  a  livery — bent  down  a  knee  as 
proud  as  Lucifer's  to  supplicate  my  lady's  good  graces, 
or  run  on  his  honor's  errands.     It  was  here,  as  he  was 

30  writing   at    Temple's   table,    or   following   his   patron's 


SWIFT  219 

walk,  that  he  saw  and  heard  the  men  who  had  governed 
the  great  world — measured  himself  with  them,  looking 
up  from  his  silent  corner,  gauged  their  brains,  weighed 
their  wits,  turned  them,  and  tried  them,  and  marked 
them.  Ah!  what  platitudes  he  must  have  heard!  what  5 
feeble  jokes!  what  pompous  commonplaces!  what  small 
men  they  must  have  seemed  under  those  enormous  peri- 
wigs, to  the  swarthy,  uncouth,  silent  Irish  secretary. 
I  wonder  whether  it  ever  struck  Temple,  that  that 
Irishman  was  his  master?  I  suppose  that  dismal  con-  10 
viction  did  not  present  itself  under  the  ambrosial  wig, 
or  Temple  could  never  have  lived  with  Swift.  Swift 
sickened,  rebelled,  left  the  service — ate  humble  pie,  and 
came  back  again;  and  so  for  ten  years  went  on,  gathering 
learning,  swallowing  scorn,  and  submitting  with  a  15 
stealthy  rage  to  his  fortune. 

Temple's  style  is  the  perfection  of  practiced  and  easy 
good  breeding.  If  he  does  not  penetrate  very  deeply 
into  a  subject,  he  professes  a  very  gentlemanly  acquain- 
tance with  it;  if  he  makes  rather  a  parade  of  Latin,  it  20 
was  the  custom  of  his  day,  as  it  was  the  custom  for  a 
gentleman  to  envelop  his  head  in  a  periwig  and  his 
hands  in  lace  ruffles.  If  he  wears  buckles  and  square- 
toed  shoes,  he  steps  in  them  with  a  consummate  grace, 
and  you  never  hear  their  creak,  or  find  them  treading  25 
upon  any  lady's  train  or  any  rival's  heels  in  the  Court 
crowd.  When  that  grows  too  hot  or  too  agitated  for 
him,  he  politely  leaves  it.  He  retires  to  his  retreat  of 
Shene  or  Moor  Park;  and  lets  the  King's  party  and  the 
Prince  of  Orange's  party  battle  it  out  among  themselves.  30 


2  20  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

He  reveres  the  Sovereign  (and  no  man  perhaps  ever 
testified  to  his  loyalty  by  so  elegant  a  bow);  he  admires 
the  Prince  of  Orange;  but  there  is  one  person  whose  ease 
and  comfort  he  loves  more  than  all  the  princes  in  Christ- 
5  endom,  and  that  valuable  member  of  society  is  himself 
Gulielmus  Temple,  Baronettus.  One  sees  him  in  his 
retreat;  between  his  study  chair  and  his  tulip  beds, 
clipping  his  apricots  and  pruning  his  essays, — the  states- 
man, the  ambassador  no  more;  but  the  philosopher,  the 

10  Epicurean,  the  fine  gentleman  and  courtier  at  St.  James's 
as  at  Shene;  where  in  place  of  kings  and  fair  ladies,  he 
pays  his  court  to  the  Ciceronian  majesty;  or  walks  a 
minuet  with  the  Epic  Muse;  or  dallies  by  the  south  wall 
with  the  ruddy  nymph  of  gardens. 

15  Temple  seems  to  have  received  and  exacted  a  pro- 
digious deal  of  veneration  from  his  household,  and  to 
have  been  coaxed,  and  warmed,  and  cuddled  by  the 
people  round  about  him,  as  delicately  as  any  of  the  plants 
which  he  loved.    When  he  fell  ill  in  1693,  tne  household 

20  was  aghast  at  his  indisposition:  mild  Dorothea  his  wife, 
the  best  companion  of  the  best  of  men — 

"  Mild  Dorothea,  peaceful,  wise,  and  great, 
Trembling  beheld  the  doubtful  hand  of  fate." 

As  for  Dorinda — his  sister — 

25  "Those  who  would  grief  describe,  might  come  and  trace 

Its  watery  footsteps  in  Dorinda's  face. 

To  see  her  weep,  joy  every  face  forsook, 

And  grief  flung  sables  on  each  menial  look. 

The  humble  tribe  mourned  for  the  quickening  soul, 
30  That  furnished  spirit  and  motion  through  the  whole." 


SWIFT  221 

Isn't  that  line  in  which  grief  is  described  as  putting 
the  menials  into  a  mourning  livery,  a  fine  image  ?  One 
of  the  menials  wrote  it,  who  did  not  like  that  Temple 
livery  nor  those  twenty  pound  wages.  Cannot  one  fancy 
the  uncouth  young  servitor,  with  downcast  eyes,  books  5 
and  papers  in  hand,  following  at  his  honor's  heels  in 
the  garden  walk;  or  taking  his  honor's  orders  as  he  stands 
by  the  great  chair,  where  Sir  William  has  the  gout,  and 
his  feet  all  blistered  with  moxa  ?  When  Sir  William  has 
the  gout  or  scolds  it  must  be  hard  work  at  the  second  10 
table;  the  Irish  secretary  owned  as  much  afterwards: 
and  when  he  came  to  dinner,  how  he  must  have  lashed 
and  growled  and  torn  the  household  with  his  gibes  and 
scorn!  What  would  the  steward  say  about  the  pride 
of  them  Irish  schollards — and  this  one  had  got  no  great  15 
credit  even  at  his  Irish  college,  if  the  truth  were  known — 
and  what  a  contempt  his  Excellency's  own  gentleman 
must  have  had  for  Parson  Teague  from  Dublin.  (The 
valets  and  chaplains  were  always  at  war.  It  is  hard  to 
say  which  Swift  thought  the  more  contemptible.)  And  20 
what  must  have  been  the  sadness,  the  sadness  and 
terror,  of  the  housekeeper's  little  daughter  with  the 
curling  black  ringlets  and  the  sweet  smiling  face,  when 
the  secretary  who  teaches  her  to  read  and  write,  and 
whom  she  loves  and  reverences  above  all  things — above  25 
mother,  above  mild  Dorothea,  above  that  tremendous 
Sir  William  in  his  square-toes  and  periwig, — when 
Mr.  Swift  comes  down  from  his  master  with  rage  in 
his  heart,  and  has  not  a  kind  word  even  for  little  Hester 
Johnson?  30 


222  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

Perhaps  for  the  Irish  secretary,  his  Excellency's  con- 
descension was  even  more  cruel  than  his  frowns.  Sir 
William  would  perpetually  quote  Latin  and  the  ancient 
classics  apropos  of  his  gardens  and  his  Dutch  statues 
5  and  plates-bandes ,  and  talk  about  Epicurus  and  Diog- 
enes Laertius,  Julius  Caesar,  Semiramis,  and  the  gar- 
dens of  the  Hesperides,  Maecenas,  Strabo  describing 
Jericho,  and  the  Assyrian  kings.  Apropos  of  beans,  he 
would  mention  Pythagoras's   precept  to  abstain  from 

10  beans,  and  that  this  precept  probably  meant  that  wise 
men  should  abstain  from  public  affairs.  He  is  a  placid 
Epicurean;  he  is  a  Pythagorean  philosopher;  he  is  a  wise 
man — that  is  the  deduction.  Does  not  Swift  think  so? 
One  can  imagine  the  downcast  eyes  lifted  up  for  a  mo- 

15  ment,  and  the  flash  of  scorn  which  they  emit.  Swift's 
eyes  were  as  azure  as  the  heavens;  Pope  says  nobly  (as 
everything  Pope  said  and  thought  of  his  friend  was 
good  and  noble),  "His  eyes  are  as  azure  as  the  heavens, 
and  have  a  charming  archness  in  them."    And  one  per- 

20  son  in  that  household,  that  pompous,  stately,  kindly 
Moor  Park,  saw  heaven  nowhere  else. 

But  the  Temple  amenities  and  solemnities  did  not 
agree  with  Swift.  He  was  half-killed  with  a  surfeit  of 
She'ne  pippins;  and  in  a  garden  seat  which  he  devised 

25  for  himself  at  Moor  Park,  and  where  he  devoured 
greedily  the  stock  of  books  within  his  reach,  he  caught 
a  vertigo  and  deafness  which  punished  and  tormented 
him  through  life.  He  could  not  bear  the  place  or  the 
servitude.     Even   in   that   poem  of  courtly  condolence, 

30  from  which  we  have  quoted  a  few  lines  of  mock  melan- 


SWIFT  223 

choly,  he  breaks  out  of  the  funereal  procession  with  a 
mad  shriek,  as  it  were,  and  rushes  away  crying  his  own 
grief,  cursing  his  own  fate,  foreboding  madness,  and 
forsaken  by  fortune,  and  even  hope. 

I   don't   know  anything   more   melancholy   than  the    5 
letter  to  Temple,  in  which,  after  having  broke  from  his 
bondage,  the  poor  wretch   crouches  piteously  towards 
his  cage  again,  and  deprecates  his  master's  anger.    He 
asks  for  testimonials  for  orders.     "The  particulars  re- 
quired of  me  are  what  relate  to  morals  and  learning;  10 
and  the  reasons  of  quitting  your  honor's  family — that 
is,  whether  the  last  was  occasioned  by  any  ill  action. 
They  are  left  entirely  to  your  honor's  mercy,  though  in 
the  first  I  think  I  cannot  reproach  myself  for  anything 
further  than  for  infirmities.    This  is  all  I  dare  at  present  15 
beg  from  your  honor,  under  circumstances  of  life  not 
worth  your  regard:  what  is  left  me  to  wish  (next  to  the 
health  and  prosperity  of  your  honor  and  family)  is  that 
Heaven  would  one  day  allow  me  the  opportunity  of  leav- 
ing my  acknowledgments  at  your  feet.    I  beg  my  most  20 
humble  duty  and  service  be  presented  to  my  ladies,  your 
honor's  lady  and  sister."— Can  prostration  fall  deeper? 
could  a  slave  bow  lower  ? 

Twenty  years  afterwards  Bishop  Kennet  describing 
the  same  man,  says,  "Dr.  Swift  came  into  the  coffee-  25 
house  and  had  a  bow  from  everybody  but  me.  When 
I  came  to  the  antechamber  [at  Court]  to  wait  before 
prayers,  Dr.  Swift  was  the  principal  man  of  talk  and 
business.  He  was  soliciting  the  Earl  of  Arran  to  speak 
to  his  brother,  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  to  get  a  place  for  30 


224  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

a  clergyman.  He  was  promising  Mr.  Thorold  to  under- 
take with  my  Lord  Treasurer,  that  he  should  obtain  a 
salary  of  200/.  per  annum  as  member  of  the  English 
Church  at  Rotterdam.  He  stopped  F.  Gwynne,  Esq., 
5  going  in  to  the  Queen  with  the  red  bag,  and  told  him 
aloud,  he  had  something  to  say  to  him  from  my  Lord 
Treasurer.  He  took  out  his  gold  watch,  and  telling  the 
time  of  day,  complained  that  it  was  very  late.  A  gentle- 
man said  he  was  too  fast.     'How  can  I  help  it,'  says 

10  the  Doctor,  'if  the  courtiers  give  me  a  watch  that  won't 
go  right?'  Then  he  instructed  a  young  nobleman,  that 
the  best  poet  in  England  was  Mr.  Pope  (a  Papist),  who 
had  begun  a  translation  of  Homer  into  English,  for 
which  he  would  have  them  all  subscribe:  'For,'  says 

15  he,  'he  shall  not  begin  to  print  till  I  have  a  thousand 
guineas  for  him.'  Lord  Treasurer,  after  leaving  the 
Queen,  came  through  the  room  beckoning  Dr.  Swift 
to  follow  him, — both  went  off  just  before  prayers." 
There's  a  little   malice   in   the   Bishop's   "just   before 

20  prayers." 

This  picture  of  the  great  Dean  seems  a  true  one,  and 
is  harsh,  though  not  altogether  unpleasant.  He  was 
doing  good,  and  to  deserving  men  too,  in  the  midst  of 
these  intrigues  and  triumphs.    His  journals  and  a  thou- 

25  sand  anecdotes  of  him  relate  his  kind  acts  and  rough 
manners.  His  hand  was  constantly  stretched  out  to 
relieve  an  honest  man — he  was  cautious  about  his 
money,  but  ready. — If  you  were  in  a  strait  would  you 
like  such  a  benefactor?     I  think  I  would  rather  have 

30  had  a  potato  and  a  friendly  word  from  Goldsmith  than 


SWIFT  225 

have  been  beholden  to  the  Dean  for  a  guinea  and  a 
dinner.  He  insulted  a  man  as  he  served  him,  made 
women  cry,  guests  look  foolish,  bullied  unlucky  friends, 
and  flung  his  benefactions  into  poor  men's  faces.  No; 
the  Dean  was  no  Irishman — no  Irishman  ever  gave  but  5 
with  a  kind  word  and  a  kind  heart. 

It  is  told,  as  if  it  were  to  Swift's  credit,  that  the  Dean 
of  St.  Patrick's  performed  his  family  devotions  every 
morning  regularly,  but  with  such  secrecy  that  the  guests 
in  his  house  were  never  in  the  least  aware  of  the  cere-  10 
mony.     There  was  no  need  surely  why  a  church  dig- 
nitary should  assemble  his  family  privily  in  a  crypt,  and 
as  if  he  was  afraid  of  heathen  persecution.    But  I  think 
the  world  was  right,  and  the  bishops  who  advised  Queen 
Anne,  when  they  counseled  her  not  to  appoint  the  au-  15 
thor  of  the  Tale  of  a  Tub  to  a  bishopric,  gave  perfectly 
good  advice.     The  man  who  wrote  the  arguments  and 
illustrations  in  that  wild  book,  could  not  but  be  aware 
what  must  be  the  sequel  of  the  propositions  which  he 
laid  down.    The  boon  companion  of  Pope  and  Boling-  20 
broke,  who  chose  these  as  the  friends  of  his  life,  and  the 
recipients  of  his  confidence  and  affection,  must  have 
heard  many  an  argument,  and  joined  in  many  a  con- 
versation  over  Pope's  port,   or   St.    John's  burgundy, 
which  would  not  bear  to  be  repeated  at  other  men's  25 
boards. 

I  know  of  few  things  more  conclusive  as  to  the  sin- 
cerity of  Swift's  religion  than  his  advice  to  poor  John 
Gay  to  turn  clergyman,  and  look  out  for  a  seat  on  the 
Bench.     Gay,  the  author  of  the  Beggar's  Opera — Gay,  30 
Prose — 15 


226  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

the  wildest  of  the  wits  about  town — it  was  this  man  that 
Jonathan  Swift  advised  to  take  orders — to  invest  in  a 
cassock  and  bands — just  as  he  advised  him  to  husband 
his  shillings  and  put  his  thousand  pounds  out  at  interest. 
5  The  Queen,  and  the  bishops,  and  the  world,  were  right 
in  mistrusting  the  religion  of  that  man. 

I  am  not  here,  of  course,  to  speak  of  any  man's  re- 
ligious views,  except  in  so  far  as  they  influence  his  lit- 
erary character,  his  life,  his  humor.    The  most  notorious 

;o  sinners  of  all  those  fellow-mortals  whom  it  is  our  busi- 
ness to  discuss — Harry  Fielding  and  Dick  Steele,  were 
especially  loud,  and  I  believe  really  fervent,  in  their  ex- 
pressions of  belief;  they  belabored  freethinkers,  and 
stoned  imaginary  atheists  on  all  sorts  of  occasions,  going 

15  out  of  their  way  to  bawl  their  own  creed,  and  persecute 
their  neighbor's,  and  if  they  sinned  and  stumbled,  as 
they  constantly  did  with  debt,  with  drink,  with  all  sorts 
of  bad  behavior,  they  got  upon  their  knees  and  cried 
"Peccavi"  with  a  most  sonorous  orthodoxy.    Yes;  poor 

20  Harry  Fielding  and  poor  Dick  Steele  were  trusty  and 

undoubting   Church   of   England   men;   they   abhorred 

Popery,  Atheism,  and  wooden  shoes,  and  idolatries  in 

general;  and  hiccupped  Church  and  State  with  fervor. 

But  Swift?    His  mind  had  had  a  different  schooling, 

25  and  possessed  a  very  different  logical  power.  He  was 
not  bred  up  in  a  tipsy  guardroom,  and  did  not  learn 
to  reason  in  a  Covent  Garden  tavern.  He  could  conduct 
an  argument  from  beginning  to  end.  He  could  see  for- 
ward with  a  fatal  clearness.    In  his  old  age,  looking  at 

30  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  when  he  said,  "  Good  God,  what  a 


SWIFT  227 

genius  I  had  when  I  wrote  that  book!"  I  think  he  was 
admiring  not  the  genius,  but  the  consequences  to  which 
the  genius  had  brought  him — a  vast  genius,  a  magnifi- 
cent genius,  a  genius  wonderfully  bright,  and  dazzling, 
and  strong, — to  seize,  to  know,  to  see,  to  flash  upon  false-  5 
hood  and  scorch  it  into  perdition,  to  penetrate  into  the 
hidden  motives,  and  expose  the  black  thoughts  of  men, — 
an  awful,  an  evil  spirit. 

Ah  man!  you,  educated  in  Epicurean  Temple's  library, 
you  whose  friends  were  Pope  and  St.  John — what  made  10 
you  to  swear  to  fatal  vows,  and  bind  yourself  to  a  life- 
long hypocrisy  before  the  Heaven  which  you  adored 
with  such  real  wonder,  humility,  and  reverence?  For 
Swift  was  a  reverent,  was  a  pious  spirit — for  Swift  could 
love  and  could  pray.  Through  the  storms  and  tempests  15 
of  his  furious  mind,  the  stars  of  religion  and  love  break 
out  in  the  blue,  shining  serenely,  though  hidden  by  the 
driving  clouds  and  the  maddened  hurricane  of  his  life. 

It  is  my  belief  that  he  suffered  frightfully  from  the 
consciousness  of  his  own  skepticism,  and  that  he  had  20 
bent  his  pride  so  far  down  as  to  put  his  apostasy  out  to 
hire.     The  paper  left  behind  him,  called  Thoughts  on 
Religion,  is  merely  a  set  of  excuses  for  not  professing  ' 
disbelief.     He  says  of  his  sermons  that  he   preached 
pamphlets:  they  have  scarce  a  Christian  characteristic;  25 
they  might  be  preached  from  the  steps  of  a  synagogue, 
or  the  floor  of  a  mosque,  or  the  box  of  a  coffeehouse 
almost.    There  is  little  or  no  cant — he  is  too  great  and 
too  proud  for  that;  and,  in  so  far  as  the  badness  of  his 
sermons  goes,  he  is  honest.    But  having  put  that  cassock  30 


228  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

on,  it  poisoned  him:  he  was  strangled  in  his  bands. 
He  goes  through  life,  tearing,  like  a  man  possessed  with 
a  devil.  Like  Abudah  in  the  Arabian  story,  he  is  always 
looking  out  for  the  Fury,  and  knows  that  the  night  will 
5  come  and  the  inevitable  hag  with  it.  What  a  night,  my 
God,  it  was!  what  a  lonely  rage  and  long  agony— what 
a  vulture  that  tore  the  heart  of  that  giant!  It  is  awful  to 
think  of  the  great  sufferings  of  this  great  man.  Through 
life  he  always  seems  alone,  somehow.     Goethe  was  so. 

io  I  can't  fancy  Shakespeare  otherwise.    The  giants  must 

live  apart.     The  kings  have  no  company.     But  this 

man  suffered  so;  and  deserved  so  to  suffer.    One  hardly 

reads  anywhere  of  such  a  pain. 

The  "saeva  indignatio"  of  which  he  spoke  as  lacerat- 

15  ing  his  heart,  and  which  he  dares  to  inscribe  on  his 
tombstone — as  if  the  wretch  who  lay  under  that  stone 
waiting  God's  judgment  had  a  right  to  be  angry— breaks 
out  from  him  in  a  thousand  pages  of  his  writing,  and 
tears  and  rends  him.    Against  men  in  office,  he  having 

20  been  overthrown;  against  men  in  England,  he  having 
lost  his  chance  of  preferment  there,  the  furious  exile 
never  fails  to  rage  and  curse.  Is  it  fair  to  call  the  famous 
Dra pier's  Letters  patriotism!  They  are  masterpieces  of 
dreadful  humor  and  invective:  they  are  reasoned  log- 

25  ically  enough  too,  but  the  proposition  is  as  monstrous 
and  fabulous  as  the  Lilliputian  island.  It  is  not  that 
the  grievance  is  so  great,  but  there  is  his  enemy — the 
assault  is  wonderful  for  its  activity  and  terrible  rage. 
It  is  Samson,  with  a  bone  in  his  hand,  rushing  on  his 

30  enemies  and  felling  them:  one  admires  not  the  cause 


SWIFT  229 

so  much  as  the  strength,  the  anger,  the  fury  of  the 
champion.  As  is  the  case  with  madmen,  certain  sub- 
jects provoke  him,  and  awaken  his  fits  of  wrath.  Mar- 
riage is  one  of  these;  in  a  hundred  passages  in  his 
writings  he  rages  against  it;  rages  against  children;  an  5 
object  of  constant  satire,  even  more  contemptible  in  his 
eyes  than  a  lord's  chaplain,  is  a  poor  curate  with  a  large 
family.  The  idea  of  this  luckless  paternity  never  fails 
to  bring  down  from  him  gibes  and  foul  language.  Could 
Dick  Steele,  or  Goldsmith,  or  Fielding,  in  his  most  10 
reckless  moment  of  satire,  have  written  anything  like 
the  Dean's  famous  "modest  proposal"  for  eating  chil- 
dren? Not  one  of  these  but  melts  at  the  thoughts  of 
childhood,  fondles  and  caresses  it.  Mr.  Dean  has  no 
such  softness,  and  enters  the  nursery  with  the  tread  and  15 
gayety  of  an  ogre.  "I  have  been  assured,"  says  he  in 
the  Modest  Proposal,  "by  a  very  knowing  American  of 
my  acquaintance  in  London,  that  a  young  healthy  child, 
well  nursed,  is,  at  a  year  old,  a  most  delicious,  nourish- 
ing, and  wholesome  food,  whether  stewed,  roasted,  baked,  20 
or  boiled;  and  I  make  no  doubt  it  will  equally  serve  in 
a  ragotit."  And  taking  up  this  pretty  joke,  as  his  way 
is,  he  argues  it  with  perfect  gravity  and  logic.  He  turns 
and  twists  this  subject  in  a  score  of  different  ways:  he 
hashes  it;  and  he  serves  it  up  cold;  and  he  garnishes  it;  25 
and  relishes  it  always.  He  describes  the  little  animal 
as  "dropped  from  its  dam,"  advising  that  the  mother 
should  let  it  suck  plentifully  in  the  last  month,  so  as  to 
render  it  plump  and  fat  for  a  good  table!  "A  child," 
says  his  Reverence,  "will  make  two  dishes  at  an  enter-  30 


23O  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

tainment  for  friends;  and  when  the  family  dines  alone, 
the  fore  or  hind  quarter  will  make  a  reasonable  dish,'1 
and  so  on;  and,  the  subject  being  so  delightful  that  he 
can't  leave  it,  he  proceeds  to  recommend,  in  place  of 

5  venison  "for  squires'  tables,  "the  bodies  of  young  lads 
and  maidens  not  exceeding  fourteen  or  under  twelve." 
Amiable  humorist!  laughing  castigator  of  morals! 
There  was  a  process  well  known  and  practiced  in  the 
Dean's  gay  days:  when  a  lout  entered  the  coffeehouse, 

10  the  wags  proceeded  to  what  they  called  "roasting"  him. 
This  is  roasting  a  subject  with  a  vengeance.  The  Dean 
had  a  native  genius  for  it.  As  the  Almanack  des 
Gourmands  says,  On  nait  rotissenr. 

And  it  was  not  merely  by  the  sarcastic  method  that 

15  Swift  exposed  the  unreasonableness  of  loving  and  hav- 
ing children.  In  Gulliver,  the  folly  of  love  and  mar- 
riage is  urged  by  graver  arguments  and  advice.  In  the 
famous  Lilliputian  kingdom,  Swift  speaks  with  approval 
of  the  practice  of  instantly  removing  children  from  their 

20  parents  and  educating  them  by  the  State;  and  amongst 
his  favorite  horses,  a  pair  of  foals  are  stated  to  be  the 
very  utmost  a  well-regulated  equine  couple  would  per- 
mit themselves.  In  fact,  our  great  satirist  was  of  opinion 
that  conjugal  love  was  unadvisable,  and  illustrated  the 

25  theory  by  his  own  practice  and  example — God  help 
him — which  made  him  about  the  most  wretched  being 
in  God's  world. 

The  grave  and  logical  conduct  of  an  absurd  proposi- 
tion, as  exemplified  in  the  cannibal  proposal  just  men- 

30  tioned,  is  our  author's  constant  method  through  all  his 


SWIFT  231 

works  of  humor.  Given  a  country  of  people  six  inches 
or  sixty  feet  high,  and  by  the  mere  process  of  the  logic, 
a  thousand  wonderful  absurdities  are  evolved,  at  so 
many  stages  of  the  calculation.  Turning  to  the  first 
minister  who  waited  behind  him  with  a  white  staff  near  5 
as  tall  as  the  mainmast  of  the  "Royal  Sovereign,"  the 
King  of  Brobdingnag  observes  how  contemptible  a 
thing  human  grandeur  is,  as  represented  by  such  a  con- 
temptible little  creature  as  Gulliver.  "The  Emperor 
of  Lilliput's  features  are  strong  and  masculine"  (what  10 
a  surprising  humor  there  is  in  this  description!) — "The 
Emperor's  features,"  Gulliver  says,  "are  strong  and 
masculine,  with  an  Austrian  lip,  an  arched  nose,  his 
complexion  olive,  his  countenance  erect,  his  body  and 
limbs  well  proportioned,  and  his  deportment  majestic.  15 
He  is  taller  by  the  breadth  of  my  nail  than  any  of  his 
court,  which  alone  is  enough  to  strike  an  awe  into  be- 
holders." 

What  a  surprising  humor  there  is  in  these  descrip- 
tions! How  noble  the  satire  is  here!  how  just  and  honest!  20 
How  perfect  the  image!  Mr.  Macaulay  has  quoted  the 
charming  lines  of  the  poet,  where  the  king  of  the  pygmies 
is  measured  by  the  same  standard.  We  have  all  read 
in  Milton  of  the  spear  that  was  like  "the  mast  of  some 
tall  admiral,"  but  these  images  are  surely  likely  to  come  25 
to  the  comic  poet  originally.  The  subject  is  before  him. 
He  is  turning  it  in  a  thousand  ways.  He  is  full  of  it. 
The  figure  suggests  itself  naturally  to  him,  and  comes 
out  of  his  subject,  as  in  that  wonderful  passage,  when 
Gulliver's  box  having  been  dropped  by  the  eagle  into  30 


232  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

the  sea,  and  Gulliver  having  been  received  into  the 
ship's  cabin,  he  calls  upon  the  crew  to  bring  the  box 
into  the  cabin,  and  put  it  on  the  table,  the  cabin  being 
only  a  quarter  the  size  of  the  box.  It  is  the  veracity  of 
5  the  blunder  which  is  so  admirable.  Had  a  man  come 
from  such  a  country  as  Brobdingnag  he  would  have 
blundered  so. 

But  the  best  stroke  of  humor,  if  there  be  a  best  in 
that  abounding  book,  is  that  where  Gulliver,  in  the  un- 

10  pronounceable  country,  describes  his  parting  from  his 
master  the  horse.  "I  took,"  he  says,  "a  second  leave 
of  my  master,  but  as  I  was  going  to  prostrate  myself  to 
kiss  his  hoof,  he  did  me  the  honor  to  raise  it  gently  to 
my  mouth.    I  am  not  ignorant  how  much  I  have  been 

15  censured  for  mentioning  this  last  particular.  Detrac- 
tors are  pleased  to  think  it  improbable  that  so  illustrious 
a  person  should  descend  to  give  so  great  a  mark  of  dis- 
tinction to  a  creature  so  inferior  as  I.  Neither  have  I 
forgotten  how  apt   some   travelers  are  to  boast  of  ex- 

20  traordinary  favors  they  have  received.  But  if  these 
censurers  were  better  acquainted  with  the  noble  and 
courteous  disposition  of  the  Houyhnhnms  they  would 
soon  change  their  opinion." 

The  surprise  here,  the  audacity  of  circumstantial  evi- 

25  dence,  the  astounding  gravity  of  the  speaker,  who  is 
not  ignorant  how  much  he  has  been  censured,  the  na- 
ture of  the  favor  conferred,  and  the  respectful  exultation 
at  the  receipt  of  it,  are  surely  complete;  it  is  truth  topsy- 
turvy, entirely  logical  and  absurd. 

30      As  for  the  humor  and  conduct  of  this  famous  fable,  I 


SWIFT  233 

suppose  there  is  no  person  who  reads  but  must  admire; 
as  for  the  moral,  I  think  it  horrible,  shameful,  unmanly, 
blasphemous;  and  giant  and  great  as  this  Dean  is,  I 
say  we  should  hoot  him.  Some  of  this  audience  mayn't 
have  read  the  last  part  of  Gulliver,  and  to  such  I  would  5 
recall  the  advice  of  the  venerable  Mr.  Punch  to  persons 
about  to  marry,  and  say  "Don't."  When  Gulliver  first 
lands  among  the  Yahoos,  the  naked  howling  wretches 
clamber  up  trees  and  assault  him,  and  he  describes  him- 
self as  "  almost  stifled  with  the  filth  which  fell  about  10 
him."  The  reader  of  the  fourth  part  of  Gulliver's  Travels 
is  like  the  hero  himself  in  this  instance.  It  is  Yahoo 
language:  a  monster  gibbering  shrieks,  and  gnashing  im- 
precations against  mankind — tearing  down  all  shreds  of 
modesty,  past  all  sense  of  manliness  and  shame;  filthy  15 
in  word,  filthy  in  thought,  furious,  raging,  obscene. 

And  dreadful  it  is  to  think  that  Swift  knew  the  ten- 
dency of  his  creed — the  fatal  rocks  towards  which  his 
logic  desperately  drifted.  That  last  part  of  Gulliver  is 
only  a  consequence  of  what  has  gone  before;  and  the  20 
worthlessness  of  all  mankind,  the  pettiness,  cruelty, 
pride,  imbecility,  the  general  vanity,  the  foolish  pre- 
tension, the  mock  greatness,  the  pompous  dullness,  the 
mean  aims,  the  base  successes — all  these  were  present 
to  him;  it  was  with  the  din  of  these  curses  of  the  world,  25 
blasphemies  against  heaven,  shrieking  in  his  ears,  that 
he  began  to  write  his  dreadful  allegory — of  which  the 
meaning  is  that  man  is  utterly  wicked,  desperate,  and 
imbecile,  and  his  passions  are  so  monstrous,  and  his 
boasted  powers  so  mean,  that  he  is  and  deserves  to  be  30 


234  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

the  slave  of  brutes,  and  ignorance  is  better  than  his 
vaunted  reason.  What  had  this  man  done?  what  secret 
remorse  was  rankling  at  his  heart?  what  fever  was 
boiling  in  him,  that  he  should  see  all  the  world  blood- 
5  shot?  We  view  the  world  with  our  own  eyes,  each  of 
us;  and  we  make  from  within  us  the  world  we  see.  A 
weary  heart  gets  no  gladness  out  of  sunshine;  a  selfish 
man  is  skeptical  about  friendship,  as  a  man  with  no  ear 
doesn't  care  for  music.     A  frightful  self-consciousness  it 

10  must  have  been,  which  looked  on  mankind  so  darkly 
through  those  keen  eyes  of  Swift. 

A  remarkable  story  is  told  by  Scott,  of  Delany,  who 
interrrupted  Archbishop  King  and  Swift  in  a  conver- 
sation which  left  the  prelate  in  tears,  and  from  which 

15  Swift  rushed  away  with  marks  of  strong  terror  and  agi- 
tation in  his  countenance,  upon  which  the  Archbishop 
said  to  Delany,  "You  have  just  met  the  most  unhappy 
man  on  earth;  but  on  the  subject  of  his  wretchedness  you 
must  never  ask  a  question." 

20  The  most  unhappy  man  on  earth; — Miserrimus — 
what  a  character  of  him!  And  at  this  time  all  the  great 
wits  of  England  had  been  at  his  feet.  All  Ireland  had 
shouted  after  him,  and  worshiped  him  as  a  liberator, 
a  savior,  the  greatest  Irish  patriot  and  citizen.     Dean 

25  Drapier  Bickerstaff  Gulliver — the  most  famous  states- 
men, and  the  greatest  poets  of  his  day,  had  applauded 
him,  and  done  him  homage;  and  at  this  time,  writing 
over  to  Bolingbroke  from  Ireland,  he  says,  "It  is  time 
for  me  to  have  done  with  the  world,  and  so  I  would  if 

30  I  could  get  into  a  better  before  I  was  called  into  the 


SWIFT  235 

best,  and  not  die  here  in  a  rage,  like  a  poisoned  rat  in  a 
hole." 

We  have  spoken  about  the  men,  and  Swift's  behavior 
to  them;  and  now  it  behooves  us  not  to  forget  that  there 
are  certain  other  persons  in  the  creation  who  had  rather    5 
intimate  relations  with  the  great  Dean.     Two  women 
whom  he  loved  and  injured  are  known  by  every  reader 
of  books  so  familiarly  that  if  we  had  seen  them,  or  if 
they  had  been  relatives  of  our  own,  we  scarcely  could 
have  known  them  better.     Who  hasn't  in  his  mind  an  10 
image  of  Stella?     Who  does  not  love  her?     Fair  and 
tender  creature:  pure  and  affectionate  heart!     Boots  it 
to  you,  now  that  you  have  been  at  rest  for  a  hundred 
and  twenty  years,  not  divided  in  death  from  the  cold 
heart  which  caused  yours,  whilst  it  beat,  such  faithful  15 
pangs  of  love  and  grief — boots  it  to  you  now,  that  the 
whole  world  loves  and  deplores  you?    Scarce  any  man, 
I  believe,  ever  thought  of  that  grave,  that  did  not  cast 
a  flower  of  pity  on  it,  and  write  over  it  a  sweet  epitaph. 
Gentle  lady,  so  lovely,  so  loving,  so  unhappy!  you  have  20 
had    countless    champions;    millions    of    manly    hearts 
mourning  for  you.     From  generation  to  generation  we 
take  up  the  fond  tradition  of  your  beauty;  we  watch 
and  follow  your  tragedy,  your  bright  morning  love  and 
purity,  your  constancy,  your  grief,  your  sweet  martyr-  25 
dom.    We  know  your  legend  by  heart.    You  are  one  of 
the  saints  of  English  story. 

And  if  Stella's  love  and  innocence  are  charming  to 
contemplate,  I  will  say  that  in  spite  of  ill-usage,  in  spite 
of  drawbacks,   in   spite   of   mysterious   separation   and  30 


236  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

union,  of  hope  delayed  and  sickened  heart — in  the 
teeth  of  Vanessa,  and  that  little  episodical  aberration 
which  plunged  Swift  into  such  woeful  pitfalls  and  quag- 
mires of  amorous  perplexity — in  spite  of  the  verdicts  of 
5  most  women,  I  believe,  who,  as  far  as  my  experience 
and  conversation  go,  generally  take  Vanessa's  part  in 
the  controversy — in  spite  of  the  tears  which  Swift  caused 
Stella  to  shed,  and  the  rocks  and  barriers  which  fate 
and  temper  interposed,  and  which  prevented  the  pure 

10  course  of  that  true  love  from  running  smoothly — the 
brightest  part  of  Swift's  story,  the  pure  star  in  that  dark 
and  tempestuous  life  of  Swift's,  is  his  love  for  Hester 
Johnson.  It  has  been  my  business,  professionally  of 
course,  to  go  through  a  deal  of  sentimental  reading  in 

15  my  time,  and  to  acquaint  myself  with  love-making,  as 
it  has  been  described  in  various  languages,  and  at  various 
ages  of  the  world;  and  I  know  of  nothing  more  manly, 
more  tender,  more  exquisitely  touching,  than  some  of 
these  brief  notes,  written  in  what  Swift  calls  "his  little 

20  language"  in  his  journal  to  Stella.  He  writes  to  her 
night  and  morning  often.  He  never  sends  away  a  letter 
to  her  but  he  begins  a  new  one  on  the  same  day.  He 
can't  bear  to  let  go  her  kind  little  hand,  as  it  were.  He 
knows  that  she  is  thinking  of  him,  and  longing  for  him 

25  far  away  in  Dublin  yonder.  He  takes  her  letters  from 
under  his  pillow  and  talks  to  them,  familiarly,  paternally, 
with  fond  epithets  and  pretty  caresses — as  he  would  to 
the  sweet  and  artless  creature  who  loved  him.  "Stay," 
he   writes  one   morning — it  is  the   14th  of  December, 

30  1710— "Stay,    I   will   answer  some   of  your  letter  this 


SWIFT  237 

morning  in  bed.  Let  me  see.  Come  and  appear,  little 
letter!  Here  I  am,  says  he,  and  what  say  you  to  Stella 
this  morning  fresh  and  fasting?  And  can  Stella  read 
this  writing  without  hurting  her  dear  eyes?"  he  goes  on, 
after  more  kind  prattle  and  fond  whispering.  The  dear  5 
eyes  shine  clearly  upon  him  then — the  good  angel  of 
his  life  is  with  him  and  blessing  him.  Ah,  it  was  a  hard 
fate  that  wrung  from  them  so  many  tears,  and  stabbed 
pitilessly  that  pure  and  tender  bosom.  A  hard  fate: 
but  would  she  have  changed  it?  I  have  heard  a  woman  10 
say  that  she  would  have  taken  Swift's  cruelty  to  have 
had  his  tenderness.  He  had  a  sort  of  worship  for  her 
whilst  he  wounded  her.  He  speaks  of  her  after  she  is 
gone;  of  her  wit,  of  her  kindness,  of  her  grace,  of  her 
beauty,  with  a  simple  love  and  reverence  that  are  in-  15 
describably  touching;  in  contemplation  of  her  goodness 
his  hard  heart  melts  into  pathos;  his  cold  rhyme  kindles 
and  glows  into  poetry,  and  he  falls  down  on  his  knees, 
so  to  speak,  before  the  angel  whose  life  he  had  embittered, 
confesses  his  own  wretchedness  and  unworthiness,  and  20 
adores  her  with  cries  of  remorse  and  love: — 

"  When  on  my  sickly  couch  I  lay, 
Impatient  both  of  night  and  day, 
And  groaning  in  unmanly  strains, 

Called  every  power  to  ease  my  pains,  25 

Then  Stella  ran  to  my  relief, 
With  cheerful  face  and  inward  grief, 
And  though  by  heaven's  severe  decree 
She  suffers  hourly  more  than  me, 

No  cruel  master  could  require  30 

From  slaves  employed  for  daily  hire. 


238  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

What  Stella,  by  her  friendship  warmed, 
With  vigor  and  delight  performed. 
Now,  with  a  soft  and  silent  tread, 
Unheard  she  moves  about  my  bed : 
e  My  sinking  spirits  now  supplies 

With  cordials  in  her  hands  and  eyes. 
Best  pattern  of  true  friends !  beware ; 
You  pay  too  dearly  for  your  care 
If,  while  your  tenderness  secures 
IO  My  life,  it  must  endanger  yours: 

For  such  a  fool  was  never  found 
Who  pulled  a  palace  to  the  ground, 
Only  to  have  the  ruins  made 
Materials  for  a  house  decayed." 

J5  One  little  triumph  Stella  had  in  her  life — one  dear 
little  piece  of  injustice  was  performed  in  her  favor,  for 
which  I  confess,  for  my  part,  I  can't  help  thanking  fate 
and  the  Dean.  That  other  person  was  sacrificed  to  her — 
that — that  young  woman,   who  lived   five   doors  from 

20  Dr.  Swift's  lodgings  in  Bury  Street,  and  who  flattered 
him,  and  made  love  to  him  in  such  an  outrageous  man- 
ner— Vanessa  was  thrown  over. 

Swift  did  not  keep  Stella's  letters  to  him  in  reply  to 
those  he  wrote  to  her.     He  kept  Bolingbroke's,  and 

25  Pope's,  and  Harley's,  and  Peterborough's:  but  Stella, 
"very  carefully,"  the  Lives  say,  kept  Swift's.  Of  course: 
that  is  the  way  of  the  world:  and  so  we  cannot  tell  what 
her  style  was,  or  of  what  sort  were  the  little  letters  which 
the  Doctor  placed  there  at  night,  and  bade  to  appear 

30  from  under  his  pillow  of  a  morning.  But  in  Letter  IV. 
of  that  famous  collection  he  describes  his  lodging  in 
Bury  Street,  where  he  has  the  first  floor,  a  dining  room 


SWIFT  239 

and  bedchamber,  at  eight  shillings  a  week;  and  in  Let- 
ter VI.  he  says  "  he  has  visited  a  lady  just  come  to  town," 
whose  name  somehow  is  not  mentioned;  and  in  Letter 
VIII.  he  enters  a  query  of  Stella's — "What  do  you  mean 
'that  boards  near  me,  that  I  dine  with  now  and  then?'  5 
What  the  deuce!  You  know  whom  I  have  dined  with 
every  day  since  I  left  you,  better  than  I  do."  Of  course 
she  does.  Of  course  Swift  has  not  the  slighest  idea  of 
what  she  means.  But  in  a  few  letters  more  it  turns  out 
that  the  Doctor  has  been  to  dine  "gravely"  with  a  10 
Mrs.  Vanhomrigh:  then  that  he  has  been  to  "his  neigh- 
bor:" then  that  he  has  been  unwell,  and  means  to  dine 
for  the  whole  week  with  his  neighbor!  Stella  was  quite 
right  in  her  previsions.  She  saw  from  the  very  first 
hint,  what  was  going  to  happen;  and  scented  Vanessa  15 
in  the  air.  The  rival  is  at  the  Dean's  feet.  The  pupil 
and  teacher  are  reading  together,  and  drinking  tea  to- 
gether, and  going  to  prayers  together,  and  learning  Latin 
together,  and  conjugating  amo,  amas,  amavi  together. 
The  little  language  is  over  for  poor  Stella.  By  the  rule  20 
of  grammar  and  the  course  of  conjugation,  doesn't 
aniavi  come  after  "a  mo  and  amas? 

The  loves  of  Cadenus  and  Vanessa  you  may  peruse 
in  Cadenus's  own  poem  on  the  subject,  and  in  poor 
Vanessa's  vehement  expostulatory  verses  and  letters  to  25 
him;  she  adores  him,  implores  him,  admires  him,  thinks 
him  something  godlike,  and  only  prays  to  be  admitted 
to  lie  at  his  feet.  As  they  are  bringing  him  home  from 
church,  those  divine  feet  of  Dr.  Swift's  are  found  pretty 
often  in  Vanessa's  parlor.    He  likes  to  be  admired  and  30 


240  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

adored.  He  finds  Miss  Vanhomrigh  to  be  a  woman  of 
great  taste  and  spirit,  and  beauty  and  wit,  and  a  fortune 
too.  He  sees  her  every  day;  he  does  not  tell  Stella  about 
the  business:  until  the  impetuous  Vanessa  becomes  too 
5  fond  of  him,  until  the  Doctor  is  quite  frightened  by  the 
young  woman's  ardor,  and  confounded  by  her  warmth. 
He  wanted  to  marry  neither  of  them — that  I  believe  was 
the  truth;  but  if  he  had  not  married  Stella,  Vanessa 
would  have  had  him  in  spite  of  himself.    When  he  went 

10  back  to  Ireland,  his  Ariadne,  not  content  to  remain  in  her 
isle,  pursued  the  fugitive  Dean.  In  vain  he  protested, 
he  vowed,  he  soothed,  and  bullied;  the  news  of  the 
Dean's  marriage  with  Stella  at  last  came  to  her,  and  it 
killed  her — she  died  of  that  passion. 

15  And  when  she  died,  and  Stella  heard  that  Swift  had 
written  beautifully  regarding  her,  "That  doesn't  sur- 
prise me,"  said  Mrs.  Stella,  "for  we  all  know  the  Dean 
could  write  beautifully  about  a  broomstick."  A  woman 
— a  true  woman!     Would  you  have  had  one  of  them 

20  forgive  the  other? 

In  a  note  in  his  biography,  Scott  says  that  his  friend 
Dr.  Tuke,  of  Dublin,  has  a  lock  of  Stella's  hair,  in- 
closed in  a  paper  by  Swift,  on  which  are  written,  in  the 
Dean's  hand,  the  words:  "Only  a  woman's  hair."    An 

25  instance,  says  Scott,  of  the  Dean's  desire  to  veil  his 
feelings  under  the  mask  of  cynical  indifference. 

See  the  various  notions  of  critics!  Do  those  words 
indicate  indifference  or  an  attempt  to  hide  feeling? 
Did  you  ever  hear  or  read  four  words  more  pathetic  ? 

30  Only   a   woman's   hair:   only   love,   only   fidelity,   only 


SWIFT  24I 

purity,  innocence,  beauty;  only  the  tenderest  heart  in 
the  world  stricken  and  wounded,  and  passed  away  now 
out  of  reach  of  pangs  of  hope  deferred,  love  insulted,  and 
pitiless  desertion: — only  that  lock  of  hair  left;  and  mem- 
ory and  remorse,  for  the  guilty,  lonely  wretch,  shudder-  5 
ing  over  the  grave  of  his  victim. 

And  yet  to  have  had  so  much  love,  he  must  have  given 
some.     Treasures  of  wit  and  wisdom,  and  tenderness, 
too,  must  that  man  have  had  locked  up  in  the  caverns 
of  his  gloomy  heart,  and  shown  fitfully  to  one  or  two  10 
whom  he  took  in  there.     But  it  was  not  good  to  visit 
that   place.      People   did   not   remain   there   long,   and 
suffered  for  having  been  there.    He  shrank  away  from 
all  affections  sooner  or  later.     Stella  and  Vanessa  both 
died  near  him,  and  away  from  him.    He  had  not  heart  '5 
enough  to  see  them  die.     He  broke  from   his  fastest 
friend,  Sheridan;  he  slunk  away  from  his  fondest  ad- 
mirer, Pope.     His  laugh  jars  on  one's  ears  after  seven- 
score  years.    He  was  always  alone — alone  and  gnashing 
in  the  darkness,  except  when  Stella's  sweet  smile  came  20 
and  shone  upon  him.    When  that  went,  silence  and  utter 
night  closed  over  him.     An  immense  genius:  an  awful 
downfall  and  ruin.     So  great  a  man  he  seems  to  me, 
that  thinking  of  him  is  like  thinking  of  an  empire  falling. 
We  have  other  great  names  to  mention — none  I  think,  25 
however,  so  great  or  so  gloomy. 


Prose — 16 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

[John  Henry  Newman  was  born  in  London,  February  21, 1801. 
Having  been  graduated  in  1820  from  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  he 
was  elected  Fellow  of  Oriel  College  in  1822.  In  1828  Newman, 
already  a  recognized  figure  in  the  scholastic  world,  was  presented 
to  the  vicarage  of  St.  Mary's,  Oxford,  and  soon  began  that  series 
of  sermons  and  Tracts  for  the  Titties,  which  were  to  point  the  way 
for  the  famous  Oxford  movement.  At  first  a  defender  of  the 
Church  of  England,  Newman  found  himself  gradually  alienated 
from  the  Anglican  authorities,  and,  in  October,  1845,  ne  was  ac^" 
mitted  to  the  Roman  Catholic  communion.  He  was  later  made  a 
Cardinal  in  the  Roman  church.  It  was  while  serving  as  Rector  at 
the  Catholic  University  in  Dublin,  to  which  position  he  was  ap- 
pointed in  1852,  that  the  lectures  on  The  Idea  of  a  University,  from 
which  the  following  essay  is  selected,  were  delivered.  The  greater 
part  of  Newman's  published  work  is  on  doctrinal  or  theological 
themes.  Of  these  works  perhaps  The  Development  of  Christian 
Doctrine,  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua,  the  Grammar  of  Assent,  and  the 
two  works  of  fiction  Loss  and  Gain  and  Callista  are  best  known. 
Newman  died  in  1890] 

Newman  applied  himself  to  the  duties  of  his  position 
as  Rector  of  the  Catholic  University,  Dublin,  with  the 
same  seriousness  that  he  had  taken  to  the  treatment  of 
the  stirring  religious  problems  of  his  earlier  life.  In  a 
very  real  sense  he  consecrated  himself  to  the  task  of 
leading  young  minds  into  higher  ways.  And  he  de- 
termined to  appeal  to  them  on  every  side  of  their  spiritual 
natures. 

This  purposeful  devotion  to  a  single  definite  end  is 

242 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  243 

very  clear  in  the  essay  on  Literature  before  us.  For 
Newman's  style  and  structure  are  as  definite  as  is  his 
purpose.  Newman  was  one  of  the  few  seers  who  are 
able  to  subordinate  imagination  to  reason.  He  never 
surrenders  the  appeal  to  the  heart,  but  we  are  made  to 
feel  that  he  refuses  to  express  all  the  emotion  that  he 
knows. 

The  theme  of  Newman's  essay  on  Literature  is  some- 
what apart  from  his  main  interests,  yet  in  this  essay,  as 
fully  as  in  any  he  ever  wrote,  is  the  man  Newman  mani- 
fested. He  was  a  man  of  catholic  tastes,  his  reading 
was  carefully  selected  from  a  broad  field  of  classic  litera- 
ture and  philosophy,  and  his  memory  was  unusually  re- 
tentive. In  this  essay  are  represented  not  only  the  wide 
scope  of  Newman's  intellectual  interests,  but  the  masterly 
orderliness  of  his  mental  processes  and  the  metaphysical 
inclinations  of  his  mind.  Newman  was  never  afraid 
to  permit  the  skeleton  of  his  literary  structure  to  show. 
He  had  remarkably  developed  the  gift  of  vivifying  any 
theme  he  treated,  yet  through  the  finished  product  the 
process  of  construction  always  was  manifest. 

The  essay  on  Literature  evidences  also  the  author's 
homiletical  training.  It  advances  through  ten  stately 
periods  from  the  exordium,  in  which  the  interrogation  is 
broached,  to  the  homily  in  which  the  spiritual  truths 
are  applied  to  concrete  facts.  No  essay  of  the  century 
displays  better  balance  among  the  parts  than  does  this. 
Furthermore,  the  speaker  never  forgets  that  there  are 
three  parties  to  a  public  address, — the  theme,  the  speaker, 
and  the  audience.  Unlike  Pater,  who  weaves  his  tapestry 
like  Penelope,  in  sublime  unconcern  of  all  save  the  joys 
of  concrete  design,  Newman  scrupulously  strives  for 
understanding  on  the  part  of  that  indispensable  third 
party,  the  audience.  In  a  letter  dated  April,  1869,  while 
he  was  at  work  on  his  Grammar  of  Assent,  Newman  ac- 
knowledges, "  I  think  I  never  have  written  for  writing's 


244  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

sake;  but  my  one  and  single  desire  and  aim  has  been  to 
do  what  is  so  difficult,  viz.  to  express  clearly  and  exactly 
my  meaning."  And  so  his  essays  and  addresses  show 
the  most  complicated  design  of  ever  recurring  retrospec- 
tive reference.  To  read  Newman  is  to  understand  him. 
Pater  toils  with  tender  solicitude  over  his  style;  Newman 
with  gentle  insistence  over  his  reader. 

Newman  was  a  natural  stylist.  Being  what  he  was 
he  perforce  wrote  as  he  did.  But  he  was  not  an  un- 
conscious artist.  He  applied  to  composition  those  deli- 
cately attenuated  ideals  that  made  his  life  a  benediction 
and  a  martyrdom.  He  had,  as  he  himself  said,  "an 
incommunicable  simplicity"  that  came  from  dwelling 
in  high  places.  There  was  in  him  something  of  the 
sweetness  of  Matthew  Arnold  without  that  writer's  mel- 
lowness of  temper.  Avoiding  exaggeration  as  vulgarity 
he  also  avoided  the  other  extreme  of  intellectual  naked- 
ness. Perhaps  no  writer  has  less  of  the  sensuous  appeal 
of  color  and  atmosphere,  yet  he  is  saved  from  chill  by 
the  very  power  of  his  thinking.  So  flexible  is  his  dic- 
tion, so  rhythmic  is  the  pulse  and  swell  of  his  thought, 
that  he  often  attains  that  most  unusual  of  all  perorations, 
the  climax  upon  a  course  of  abstract  reasoning. 

No  one  can  as  well  express  Newman's  attainments 
in  style  as  he  himself  has  done  in  treating  the  ideal 
characteristics  of  the  great  author.  In  Newman's  style 
the  ideal  and  its  accomplishment  seem  to  be  joined. 
"He  writes  passionately,  because  he  feels  keenly;  for- 
cibly, because  he  conceives  vividly;  he  sees  too  clearly 
to  be  vague;  he  is  too  serious  to  be  otiose;  he  can  ana- 
lyze his  subject,  and  therefore  he  is  rich;  he  embraces 
it  as  a  whole  and  in  its  parts,  and  therefore  he  is  con- 
sistent; he  has  a  firm  hold  of  it,  and  therefore  he  is  lumi- 
nous. When  his  imagination  wells  up,  it  overflows  in 
ornament;  when  his  heart  is  touched,  it  thrills  along  his 
verse.      He  always  has  the  right  word  for  the  right  idea, 


LITERATURE  245 

and  never  a  word  too  much.  If  he  is  brief,  it  is  because 
few  words  suffice;  when  he  is  lavish  of  them,  still  each 
word  has  its  mark,  and  aids,  not  embarrasses,  the  vig- 
orous march  of  his  elocution." 

LITERATURE 


Wishing  to  address  you,  Gentlemen,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  a  new  Session,  I  tried  to  find  a  subject 
for  discussion,  which  might  be  at  once  suitable  to  the 
occasion,  yet  neither  too  large  for  your  time,  nor  too 
minute  or  abstruse  for  your  attention.  I  think  I  see  one  5 
for  my  purpose  in  the  very  title  of  your  Faculty.  It 
is  the  Faculty  of  Philosophy  and  Letters.  Now  the 
question  may  arise  as  to  what  is  meant  by  "  Philosophy," 
and  what  is  meant  by  "Letters."  As  to  the  other  Fac- 
ulties, the  subject-matter  which  they  profess  is  intelli-  10 
gible,  as  soon  as  named,  and  beyond  all  dispute.  We 
know  what  Science  is,  what  Medicine,  what  Law,  and 
what  Theology;  but  we  have  not  so  much  ease  in  de- 
termining what  is  meant  by  Philosophy  and  Letters. 
Each  department  of  that  twofold  province  needs  ex-  15 
planation:  it  will  be  sufficient,  on  an  occasion  like  this, 
to  investigate  one  of  them.  Accordingly  I  shall  select 
for  remark  the  latter  of  the  two,  and  attempt  to  de- 
termine what  we  are  to  understand  by  Letters  or  Lit- 
erature, in  what  Literature  consists,  and  how  it  stands  20 
relatively  to  Science.  We  speak,  for  instance,  of  ancient 
and  modern  literature,  the  literature  of  the  day,  sacred 
literature,  light  literature;  and  our  lectures  in  this  place 


246  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

are  devoted  to  classical  literature  and  English  literature. 
Are  Letters,  then,  synonymous  with  books?  This  can- 
not be,  or  they  would  include  in  their  range  Philosophy, 
Law,  and,  in  short,  the  teaching  of  all  the  other  Fac- 

5  ulties.  Far  from  confusing  these  various  studies,  we 
view  the  works  of  Plato  or  Cicero  sometimes  as  philos- 
ophy, sometimes  as  literature;  on  the  other  hand,  no 
one  would  ever  be  tempted  to  speak  of  Euclid  as  lit- 
erature, or  of  Matthiae's    Greek   Grammar.     Is,  then, 

10  literature  synonymous  with  composition?  with  books 
written  with  an  attention  to  style?  is  literature  fine 
writing?  again,  is  it  studied  and  artificial  writing? 

There  are  excellent  persons  who  seem  to  adopt  this 
last  account  of  Literature  as  their  own  idea  of  it.    They 

15  depreciate  it,  as  if  it  were  the  result  of  a  mere  art  or  trick 
of  words.  Professedly  indeed,  they  are  aiming  at  the 
Greek  and  Roman  classics,  but  their  criticisms  have 
quite  as  great  force  against  all  literature  as  against  any. 
I  think  I  shall  be  best  able  to  bring  out  what  I  have  to 

20  say  on  the  subject  by  examining  the  statements  which 
they  make  in  defense  of  their  own  view  of  it.  They 
contend  then,  I.  that  fine  writing,  as  exemplified  in  the 
Classics,  is  mainly  a  matter  of  conceits,  fancies,  and 
prettinesses,  decked  out  in  choice  words;  2.  that  this  is 

25  the  proof  of  it,  that  the  classics  will  not  bear  translating; — 
(and  this  is  why  I  have  said  that  the  real  attack  is  upon 
literature  altogether,  not  the  classical  only;  for,  to  speak 
generally,  all  literature,  modern  as  well  as  ancient,  lies 
under  this  disadvantage.     This,  however,  they  will  not 

30  allow;  for  they  maintain),  3.  that  Holy  Scripture  pre- 


LITERATURE  247 

sents  a  remarkable  contrast  to  secular  writings  on  this 
very  point,  viz.,  in  that  Scripture  does  easily  admit  of 
translation,  though  it  is  the  most  sublime  and  beautiful 
of  all  writings. 


Now  I  will  begin  by  stating  these  three  positions  in  5 
the  words  of  a  writer,  who  is  cited  by  the  estimable 
Catholics  in  question  as  a  witness,  or  rather  as  an  ad- 
vocate, in  their  behalf,  though  he  is  far  from  being  able 
in  his  own  person  to  challenge  the  respect  which  is  in- 
spired by  themselves.  10 

"There  are  two  sorts  of  eloquence,"  says  this  writer, 
"the  one  indeed  scarce  deserves  the  name  of  it,  which 
consists  chiefly  in  labored  and  polished  periods,  an 
over-curious  and  artificial  arrangement  of  figures,  tin- 
selled over  with  a  gaudy  embellishment  of  words,  which  15 
glitter,  but  convey  little  or  no  light  to  the  understanding. 
This  kind  of  writing  is  for  the  most  part  much  affected 
and  admired  by  the  people  of  weak  judgment  and  vicious 
taste;  but  it  is  a  piece  of  affectation  and  formality  the 
sacred  writers  are  utter  strangers  to.  It  is  a  vain  and  20 
boyish  eloquence;  and,  as  it  has  always  been  esteemed 
below  the  great  geniuses  of  all  ages,  so  much  more  so 
with  respect  to  those  writers  who  were  actuated  by  the 
spirit  of  Infinite  Wisdom,  and  therefore  wrote  with  that 
force  and  majesty  with  which  never  man  writ.  The  25 
other  st>rt  of  eloquence  is  quite  the  reverse  to  this,  and 
which  may  be  said  to  be  the  true  characteristic  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures;  where  the  excellence  does  not  arise 


248  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

from  a  labored  and  far-fetched  elocution,  but  from  a 
surprising  mixture  of  simplicity  and  majesty,  which  is 
a  double  character,  so  difficult  to  be  united  that  it  is 
seldom  to  be  met  with  in  compositions  merely  human. 
5  We  see  nothing  in  Holy  Writ  of  affectation  and  super- 
fluous ornament  .  .  .  Now,  it  is  observable  that  the 
most  excellent  profane  authors,  whether  Greek  or  Latin, 
lose  most  of  their  graces  whenever  we  find  them  literally 
translated.    Homer's  famed  representation  of  Jupiter — 

10  his  cried-up  description  of  a  tempest,  his  relation  of 
Neptune's  shaking  the  earth  and  opening  it  to  its  center, 
his  description  of  Pallas's  horses,  with  numbers  of  other 
long-since  admired  passages,  flag,  and  almost  vanish 
away,  in  the  vulgar  Latin  translation. 

15  "Let  any  one  but  take  the  pains  to  read  the  common 
Latin  interpretations  of  Virgil,  Theocritus,  or  even  of 
Pindar,  and  one  may  venture  to  affirm  he  will  be  able 
to  trace  out  but  few  remains  of  the  graces  which  charmed 
him  so  much  in  the  original.     The  natural  conclusion 

20  from  hence  is,  that  in  the  classical  authors,  the  expres- 
sion, the  sweetness  of  the  numbers,  occasioned  by  a 
musical  placing  of  words,  constitute  a  great  part  of  their 
beauties;  whereas,  in  the  sacred  writings,  they  consist 
more  in  the  greatness  of  the  things  themselves  than  in 

25  the  words  and  expressions.  The  ideas  and  conceptions 
are  so  great  and  lofty  in  their  own  nature  that  they 
necessarily  appear  magnificent  in  the  most  artless  dress. 
Look  but  into  the  Bible,  and  we  see  them  shine  through 
the  most  simple  and  literal  translations.    That  glorious 

30  description  which  Moses  gives  of  the  creation  of  the 


LITERATURE  249 

heavens  and  the  earth,  which  Longinus  .  .  .  was 
go  greatly  taken  with,  has  not  lost  the  least  whit  of  its 
intrinsic  worth,  and  though  it  has  undergone  so  many- 
translations,  yet  triumphs  over  all,  and  breaks  forth  with 
as  much  force  and  vehemence  as  in  the  original.  ...  5 
In  the  history  of  Joseph,  where  Joseph  makes  himself 
known,  and  weeps  aloud  upon  the  neck  of  his  dear 
brother  Benjamin,  that  all  the  house  of  Pharaoh  heard 
him,  at  that  instant  none  of  his  brethren  are  introduced 
as  uttering  aught,  either  to  express  their  present  joy  or  10 
palliate  their  former  injuries  to  him.  On  all  sides  there 
immediately  ensues  a  deep  and  solemn  silence;  a  silence 
infinitely  more  eloquent  and  expressive  than  anything 
else  that  could  have  been  substituted  in  its  place.  Had 
Thucydides,  Herodotus,  Livy,  or  any  of  the  celebrated  15 
classical  historians,  been  employed  in  writing  this  his- 
tory, when  they  came  to  this  point  they  would  doubt- 
less have  exhausted  all  their  fund  of  eloquence  in  fur- 
nishing Joseph's  brethren  with  labored  and  studied 
harangues,  which,  however  fine  they  might  have  been  20 
in  themselves,  would  nevertheless  have  been  unnatural, 
and  altogether  improper  on  the  occasion."  * 

This  is  eloquently  written,  but  it  contains,  I  consider, 
a  mixture  of  truth  and  falsehood,  which  it  will  be  my 
business  to  discriminate  from  each  other.  Far  be  it  from  25 
me  to  deny  the  unapproachable  grandeur  and  simplicity 
of  Holy  Scripture;  but  I  shall  maintain  that  the  classics 
are,  as  human  compositions,  simple  and  majestic  and 
natural  too.  I  grant  that  Scripture  is  concerned  with 
1  Sterne,  Sermon  xlii. 


250  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

things,  but  I  will  not  grant  that  classical  literature  is 
simply  concerned  with  words.  I  grant  that  human 
literature  is  often  elaborate,  but  I  will  maintain  that 
elaborate  composition  is  not  unknown  to  the  writers  of 
5  Scripture.  I  grant  that  human  literature  cannot  easily 
be  translated  out  of  the  particular  language  to  which 
it  belongs;  but  it  is  not  at  all  the  rule  that  Scripture  can 
easily  be  translated  either;— and  now  I  address  myself 
to  my  task: — 


10  Here,  then,  in  the  first  place,  I  observe,  Gentlemen, 
that  Literature,  from  the  derivation  of  the  word,  implies 
writing,  not  speaking;  this,  however,  arises  from  the 
circumstance  of  the  copiousness,  variety,  and  public 
circulation  of  the  matters  of  which  it  consists.    What  is 

15  spoken  cannot  outrun  the  range  of  the  speaker's  voice, 
and  perishes  in  the  uttering.  When  words  are  in  de- 
mand to  express  a  long  course  of  thought,  when  they 
have  to  be  conveyed  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  or  perpet- 
uated for  the  benefit  of  posterity,  they  must  be  written 

20  down,  that  is,  reduced  to  the  shape  of  literature;  still, 
properly  speaking,  the  terms,  by  which  we  denote  this 
characteristic  gift  of  man,  belong  to  its  exhibition  by 
means  of  the  voice,  not  of  handwriting.  It  addresses 
itself,  in  its  primary  idea,  to  the  ear,  not  to  the  eye.    We 

25  call  it  the  power  of  speech,  we  call  it  language,  that  is, 
the  use  of  the  tongue;  and,  even  when  we  write,  we  still 
keep  in  mind  what  was  its  original  instrument,  for  we 
use  freely  such  terms  in  our  books  as  "saying,"  "speak- 


LITERATURE  25 1 

ing,"  "telling,"  "talking,"  "calling;"  we  use  the  terms 
"phraseology"  and  "diction;"  as  if  we  were  still  ad- 
dressing ourselves  to  the  ear. 

Now  I  insist  on  this,  because  it  shows  that  speech,  and 
therefore  literature,  which  is  its  permanent  record,  is    5 
essentially  a  personal  work.     It  is  not  some  production 
or  result,  attained  by  the  partnership  of  several  persons, 
or  by  machinery,  or  by  any  natural  process,  but  in  its 
very  idea  it  proceeds,  and  must  proceed,  from  some  one 
given  individual.    Two  persons  cannot  be  the  authors  of  10 
the  sounds  which  strike  our  ear;  and,  as  they  cannot  be 
speaking  one  and  the  same  speech,  neither  can  they  be 
writing  one  and  the  same  lecture  or  discourse, — which 
must  certainly  belong  to  some  one  person  or  other,  and 
is  the  expression  of  that  one  person's  ideas  and  feelings,  15 
— ideas  and  feelings  personal  to  himself,  though  others 
may  have  parallel  and  similar  ones, — proper  to  himself, 
in  the  same  sense  as  his  voice,  his  air,  his  countenance, 
his  carriage,  and   his   action,  are   personal.     In  other 
words,  Literature  expresses,  not  objective  truth,  as  it  is  20 
called,  but  subjective;  not  things,  but  thoughts. 

Now  this  doctrine  will  become  clearer  by  considering 
another  use  of  words,  which  does  relate  to  objective 
truth,  or  to  things;  which  relates  to  matters,  not  per- 
sonal, not  subjective  to  the  individual,  but  which,  even  25 
were  there  no  individual  man  in  the  whole  world  to 
know  them  or  to  talk  about  them,  would  exist  still. 
Such  objects  become  the  matter  of  Science,  and  words 
indeed  are  used  to  express  them,  but  such  words  are 
rather  symbols  than  language,  and  however  many  we  30 


252  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

use,  and  however  we  may  perpetuate  them  by  writing, 
we  never  could  make  any  kind  of  literature  out  of  them, 
or  call  them  by  that  name.  Such,  for  instance,  would 
be  Euclid's  Elements;  they  relate  to  truths  universal  and 
5  eternal;  they  are  not  mere  thoughts,  but  things:  they 
exist  in  themselves,  not  by  virtue  of  our  understanding 
them,  not  in  dependence  upon  our  will,  but  in  what  is 
called  the  nature  of  things,  or  at  least  on  conditions  ex- 
ternal to  us.     The  words,  then,  in  which  they  are  set 

10  forth  are  not  language,  speech,  literature,  but  rather,  as 
I  have  said,  symbols.  And,  as  a  proof  of  it,  you  will 
recollect  that  it  is  possible,  nay  usual,  to  set  forth  the 
propositions  of  Euclid  in  algebraical  notation,  which, 
as  all  would  admit,  has  nothing  to  do  with  literature. 

*5  What  is  true  of  mathematics  is  true  also  of  every  study, 
so  far  forth  as  it  is  scientific;  it  makes  use  of  words  as 
the  mere  vehicle  of  things,  and  is  thereby  withdrawn 
from  the  province  of  literature.  Thus  metaphysics, 
ethics,  law,  political  economy,  chemistry,  theology,  cease 

20  to  be  literature  in  the  same  degree  as  they  are  capable 
of  a  severe  scientific  treatment.  And  hence  it  is  that 
Aristotle's  works  on  the  one  hand,  though  at  first  sight 
literature,  approach  in  character,  at  least  a  great  num- 
ber of  them,  to  mere  science;  for  even  though  the  things 

25  which  he  treats  of  and  exhibits  may  not  always  be  real 
and  true,  yet  he  treats  them  as  if  they  were,  not  as  if 
they  were  the  thoughts  of  his  own  mind;  that  is,  he  treats 
them  scientifically.  On  the  other  hand,  Law  or  Natural 
History  has  before  now  been  treated  by  an  author  with 

30  so  much  of  coloring  derived  from  his  own  mind  as  to 


LITERATURE  253 

become  a  sort  of  literature;  this  is  especially  seen  in  the 
instance  of  Theology,  when  it  takes  the  shape  of  Pulpit 
Eloquence.  It  is  seen  too  in  historical  composition, 
which  becomes  a  mere  specimen  of  chronology,  or  a 
chronicle,  when  divested  of  the  philosophy,  the  skill,  or  5 
the  party  and  personal  feelings  of  the  particular  writer. 
Science,  then,  has  to  do  with  things,  literature  with 
thoughts;  science  is  universal,  literature  is  personal; 
science  uses  words  merely  as  symbols,  but  literature  uses 
language  in  its  full  compass,  as  including  phraseology,  10 
idiom,  style,  composition,  rhythm,  eloquence,  and  what- 
ever other  properties  are  included  in  it. 

Let  us  then  put  aside  the  scientific  use  of  words,  when 
we  are  to  speak  of  language  and  literature.  Literature 
is  the  personal  use  or  exercise  of  language.  That  this  is  15 
so  is  further  proved  from  the  fact  that  one  author  uses 
it  so  differently  from  another.  Language  itself  in  its 
very  origination  would  seem  to  be  traceable  to  individuals. 
Their  peculiarities  have  given  it  its  character.  We  are 
often  able  in  fact  to  trace  particular  phrases  or  idioms  to  20 
individuals;  we  know  the  history  of  their  rise.  Slang 
surely,  as  it  is  called,  comes  of,  and  breathes  of  the  per- 
sonal. The  connection  between  the  force  of  words  in 
particular  languages  and  the  habits  and  sentiments  of 
the  nations  speaking  them  has  often  been  pointed  out.  25 
And,  while  the  many  use  language  as  they  find  it,  the 
man  of  genius  uses  it  indeed,  but  subjects  it  withal  to  his 
own  purposes,  and  molds  it  according  to  his  own  pecu- 
liarities. The  throng  and  succession  of  ideas,  thoughts, 
feelings,   imaginations,  aspirations,   which  pass  within  30 


254  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

him,  the  abstractions,  the  juxtapositions,  the  comparisons, 
the  discriminations,  the  conceptions,  which  are  so  original 
in  him,  his  views  of  external  things,  his  judgments  upon 
life,  manners,  and  history,  the  exercises  of  his  wit,  of 

5  his  humor,  of  his  depth,  of  his  sagacity,  all  these  in- 
numerable and  incessant  creations,  the  very  pulsation 
and  throbbing  of  his  intellect,  does  he  image  forth,  to  all 
does  he  give  utterance,  in  a  corresponding  language, 
which  is  as  multiform  as  this  inward  mental  action  itself 

10  and  analogous  to  it,  the  faithful  expression  of  his  in- 
tense personality,  attending  on  his  own  inward  world  of 
thought  as  its  very  shadow:  so  that  we  might  as  well 
say  that  one  man's  shadow  is  another's  as  that  the  style 
of  a  really  gifted  mind  can  belong  to  any  but  himself. 

15  It  follows  him  about  as  a  shadow.  His  thought  and 
feeling  are  personal,  and  so  his  language  is  personal. 

4 

Thought  and  speech  are  inseparable  from  each  other. 
Matter  and  expression  are  parts  of  one:  style  is  a  think- 
ing out  into  language.    This  is  what  I  have  been  laying 

20  down,  and  this  is  literature;  not  things,  not  the  verbal 
symbols  of  things;  not  on  the  other  hand  mere  words; 
but  thoughts  expressed  in  language.  Call  to  mind, 
Gentlemen,  the  meaning  of  the  Greek  word  which  ex- 
presses this  special  prerogative  of  man  over  the  feeble 

25  intelligence  of  the  inferior  animals.  It  is  called  Logos: 
what  does  Logos  mean  ?  it  stands  both  for  reason  and  for 
speech,  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  which  it  means  more 
properly.    It  means  both  at  once:  why?  because  really 


LITERATURE  255 

they  cannot  be  divided, — because  they  are  in  a  true 
sense  one.  When  we  can  separate  light  and  illumina- 
tion, life  and  motion,  the  convex  and  the  concave  of  a 
curve,  then  will  it  be  possible  for  thought  to  tread  speech 
under  foot,  and  to  hope  to  do  without  it — then  will  it  5 
be  conceivable  that  the  vigorous  and  fertile  intellect 
should  renounce  its  own  double,  its  instrument  of  ex- 
pression, and  the  channel  of  its  speculations  and  emo- 
tions. 

Critics  should  consider  this  view  of  the  subject  before  10 
they  lay  down  such  canons  of  taste  as  the  writer  whose 
pages  I  have  quoted.  Such  men  as  he  is  consider  fine 
writing  to  be  an  addition  from  without  to  the  matter 
treated  of,; — a  sort  of  ornament  superinduced,  or  a  lux- 
ury indulged  in,  by  those  who  have  time  and  inclination  15 
for  such  vanities.  They  speak  as  if  one  man  could  do 
the  thought,  and  another  the  style.  We  read  in  Persian 
travel's  of  the  way  in  which  young  gentlemen  go  to  work 
in  the  East,  when  they  would  engage  in  correspondence 
with  those  who  inspire  them  with  hope  or  fear.  They  20 
cannot  write  one  sentence  themselves;  so  they  betake 
th-emselves  to  the  professional  letter-writer.  They  con- 
ficie  to  him  the  object  they  have  in  view.  They  have  a 
point  to  gain  from  a  superior,  a  favor  to  ask,  an  evil  to 
deprecate;  they  have  to  approach  a  man  in  power,  or  to  25 
niake  court  to  some  beautiful  lady.  The  professional 
nian  manufactures  words  for  them,  as  they  are  wanted, 
as;  a  stationer  sells  them  paper,  or  a  schoolmaster  might 
cut  their  pens.  Thought  and  word  are,  in  their  concep- 
tion, two  things,  and  thus  there  is  a  division  of  labor.  30 


256  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

The  man  of  thought  comes  to  the  man  of  words;  and 
the  man  of  words,  duly  instructed  in  the  thought,  dips 
the  pen  of  desire  into  the  ink  of  devotedness,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  spread  it  over  the  page  of  desolation.  Then  the 
5  nightingale  of  affection  is  heard  to  warble  to  the  rose  of 
loveliness,  while  the  breeze  of  anxiety  plays  around  the 
brow  of  expectation.  This  is  what  the  Easterns  are  said 
to  consider  fine  writing;  and  it  seems  pretty  much  the 
idea  of  the  school  of  critics  to  whoi  1  I  have  been  re- 

10  ferring. 

We  have  an  instance  in  literary  history  of  this  very 
proceeding  nearer  home,  in  a  great  University,  in  the 
latter  years  of  the  last  century.  I  have  referred  to  it 
before  now  in  a  public  lecture  elsewhere;  *  but  it  is  too 

15  much  in  point  here  to  be  omitted.  A  learned  Arabic 
scholar  had  to  deliver  a  set  of  lectures  before  its  doctors 
and  professors  on  an  historical  subject  in  which  his 
reading  had  lain.  A  linguist  is  conversant  with  science 
rather  than  with  literature;  but  this  gentleman  felt  that 

20  his  lectures  must  not  be  without  a  style.  Being  of  the 
opinion  of  the  Orientals,  with  whose  writings  he  was 
familiar,  he  determined  to  buy  a  style.  He  took  the 
step  of  engaging  a  person,  at  a  price,  to  turn  the  matter 
which  he   had   got   together  into   ornamental   English- 

25  Observe,  he  did  not  wish  for  mere  grammatical  English, 
but  for  an  elaborate,  pretentious  style.  An  artist  was 
found  in  the  person  of  a  country  curate,  and  the  job  wis 
carried  out.  His  lectures  remain  to  this  day,  in  their 
own  place  in  the  protracted  series  of  annual  Discounts 

l  Position  of  Catholics  in  England,  pp.  IOI,  102. 


LITERATURE  257 

to  which  they  belong,  distinguished  amid  a  number  of 
heavyish  compositions  by  the  rhetorical  and  ambitious 
diction  for  which  he  went  into  the  market.  This  learned 
divine,  indeed,  and  the  author  I  have  quoted,  differ  from 
each  other  in  the  estimate  they  respectively  form  of  5 
literary  composition;  but  they  agree  together  in  this, — in 
considering  such  composition  a  trick  and  a  trade;  they 
put  it  on  a  par  with  the  gold  plate  and  the  flowers  and 
the  music  of  a  banquet,  which  do  not  make  the  viands 
better,  but  the  entertainment  more  pleasurable;  as  if  10 
language  were  the  hired  servant,  the  mere  mistress  of  the 
reason,  and  not  the  lawful  wife  in  her  own  house. 

But  can  they  really  think  that  Homer,  or  Pindar,  or 
Shakespeare,   or   Dryden,   or   Walter   Scott,   were   ac- 
customed to  aim  at  diction  for  its  own  sake,  instead  of  15 
being  inspired  with  their  subject,  and  pouring  forth 
beautiful  words  because  they  had  beautiful  thoughts? 
this  is  surely  too  great  a  paradox  to  be  borne.    Rather, 
it  is  the  fire  within  the  author's  breast  which  overflows 
in  the  torrent  of  his  burning,  irresistible  eloquence;  it  is  20 
the  poetry  of  his  inner  soul,  which  relieves  itself  in  the 
Ode  or  the  Elegy;  and  his  mental  attitude  and  bearing, 
the  beauty  of  his  moral  countenance,   the  force  and 
keenness  of  his  logic,  are  imaged  in  the  tenderness,  or 
energy,  or  richness  of  his  language.    Nay,  according  to  25 
the  well-known  line,  "facit  indignatio  verstis;"  not  the 
words  alone,  but  even  the  rhythm,  the  meter,  the  verse, 
will  be  the  contemporaneous  offspring  of  the  emotion  or 
imagination  which  possesses  him.    "  Poeta  nascitur,  non 
fit,"  says  the  proverb;  and  this  is  in  numerous  instances  30 
Prose — 1 7 


258  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

true  of  his  poems,  as  well  as  of  himself.  They  are  born, 
not  framed;  they  are  a  strain  rather  than  a  composition; 
and  their  perfection  is  the  monument,  not  so  much  of  his 
skill  as  of  his  power.  And  this  is  true  of  prose  as  well  as 
5  of  verse  in  its  degree:  who  will  not  recognize  in  the  vision 
of  Mirza  a  delicacy  and  beauty  of  style  which  is  very 
difficult  to  describe,  but  which  is  felt  to  be  in  exact  cor- 
respondence to  the  ideas  of  which  it  is  the  expression  ? 

5 
And,  since  the  thoughts  and  reasonings  of  an  author 

10  have,  as  I  have  said,  a  personal  character,  no  wonder  that 
his  style  is  not  only  the  image  of  his  subject,  but  of  his 
mind.  That  pomp  of  language,  that  full  and  tuneful 
diction,  that  felicitousness  in  the  choice  and  exquisite- 
ness  in  the  collocation  of  words,  which  to  prosaic  writers 

15  seem  artificial,  is  nothing  else  but  the  mere  habit  and 
way  of  a  lofty  intellect.  Aristotle,  in  his  sketch  of  the 
magnanimous  man,  tells  us  that  his  voice  is  deep,  his 
motions  slow,  and  his  stature  commanding.  In  like 
manner,  the  elocution  of  a  great  intellect  is  great.    His 

20  language  expresses,  not  only  his  great  thoughts,  but  his 
great  self.  Certainly  he  might  use  fewer  words  than  he 
uses;  but  he  fertilizes  his  simplest  ideas,  and  germinates 
into  a  multitude  of  details,  and  prolongs  the  march  of 
his  sentences,  and  sweeps  round  to  the  full  diapason  of 

25  his  harmony,  as  if  xvde'i  yaUav,  rejoicing  in  his  own  vigor 
and  richness  of  resource.  I  say,  a  narrow  critic  will  call 
it  verbiage,  when  really  it  is  a  sort  of  fullness  of  heart, 
parallel  to  that  which  makes  the  merry  boy  whistle  as  he 


LITERATURE  259 

walks,  or  the  strong  man,  like  the  smith  in  the  novel, 
flourish  his  club  when  there  is  no  one  to  fight  with. 

Shakespeare  furnishes  us  with  frequent  instances  of 
this  peculiarity,  and  all  so  beautiful,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
select  for  quotation.    For  instance,  in  Macbeth: —  5 

"  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
And,  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  foul  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff,  10 

Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ?  " 

Here  a  simple  idea,  by  a  process  which  belongs  to  the 
orator  rather  than  to  the  poet,  but  still  comes  from  the 
native  vigor  of  genius,  is  expanded  into  a  many-mem- 
bered  period.  15 

The  following  from  Hamlet  is  of  the  same  kind: — 

"'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forced  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye,  20 

Nor  the  dejected  haviour  of  the  visage, 
Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly." 

Now,  if  such  declamation,  for  declamation  it  is,  how- 
ever noble,  be  allowable  in  a  poet,  whose  genius  is  so  far  25 
removed  from  pompousness  or  pretense,  much  more  is 
it  allowable  in  an  orator,  whose  very  province  it  is  to 
put  forth  words  to  the  best  advantage  he  can.  Cicero 
has  nothing  more  redundant  in  any  part  of  his  writings 


260  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

than  these  passages  from  Shakespeare.  No  lover  then 
at  least  of  Shakespeare  may  fairly  accuse  Cicero  of 
gorgeousness  of  phraseology  or  diffuseness  of  style.  Nor 
will  any  sound  critic  be  tempted  to  do  so.  As  a  certain 
5  unaffected  neatness  and  propriety  and  grace  of  diction 
may  be  required  of  any  author  who  lays  claim  to  be  a 
classic,  for  the  same  reason  that  a  certain  attention  to 
dress  is  expected  of  every  gentleman,  so  to  Cicero  may 
be  allowed  the  privilege  of  the  "os  magna  sonaturum," 

10  of  which  the  ancient  critic  speaks.  His  copious,  ma- 
jestic, musical  flow  of  language,  even  if  sometimes  be- 
yond what  the  subject-matter  demands,  is  never  out  of 
keeping  with  the  occasion  or  with  the  speaker.  It  is 
the  expression  of  lofty  sentiments  in  lofty  sentences,  the 

15  "mens  magna  in  corpore  magno."  It  is  the  develop- 
ment of  the  inner  man.  Cicero  vividly  realized  the 
status  of  a  Roman  senator  and  statesman,  and  the  "  pride 
of  place"  of  Rome,  in  all  the  grace  and  grandeur  which 
attached  to  her;  and  he  imbibed,  and  became,  what  he 

20  admired.  As  the  exploits  of  Scipio  or  Pompey  are  the 
expression  of  this  greatness  in  deed,  so  the  language  of 
Cicero  is  the  expression  of  it  in  word.  And,  as  the  acts 
of  the  Roman  ruler  or  soldier  represent  to  us,  in  a  man- 
ner special  to  themselves,  the  characteristic  magnanimity 

25  of  the  lords  of  the  earth,  so  do  the  speeches  or  treatises 
of  her  accomplished  orator  bring  it  home  to  our  imag- 
inations as  no  other  writing  could  do.  Neither  Livy, 
nor  Tacitus,  nor  Terence,  nor  Seneca,  nor  Pliny,  nor 
Quintilian,  is  an  adequate  spokesman  for  the  Imperial 

30  City.    They  write  Latin;  Cicero  writes  Roman. 


LITERATURE  261 


You  will  say  that  Cicero's  language  is  undeniably 
studied,  but  that  Shakespeare's  is  as  undeniably  natural 
and  spontaneous;  and  that  this  is  what  is  meant,  when 
the  Classics  are  accused  of  being  mere  artists  of  words. 
Here  we  are  introduced  to  a  further  large  question,  5 
which  gives  me  the  opportunity  of  anticipating  a  misap- 
prehension of  my  meaning.  I  observe,  then,  that,  not 
only  is  that  lavish  richness  of  style,  which  I  have  noticed 
in  Shakespeare,  justifiable  on  the  principles  which  I 
have  been  laying  down,  but,  what  is  less  easy  to  receive,  10 
even  elaborateness  in  composition  is  no  mark  of  trick  or 
artifice  in  an  author.  Undoubtedly  the  works  of  the 
Classics,  particularly  the  Latin,  are  elaborate;  they  have 
cost  a  great  deal  of  time,  care,  and  trouble.  They  have 
had  many  rough  copies;  I  grant  it.  I  grant  also  that  15 
there  are  writers  of  name,  ancient  and  modern,  who  really 
are  guilty  of  the  absurdity  of  making  sentences,  as  the 
very  end  of  their  literary  labor.  Such  was  Isocrates; 
such  were  some  of  the  sophists;  they  were  set  on  words, 
to  the  neglect  of  thoughts  or  things;  I  cannot  defend  them.  20 
If  I  must  give  an  English  instance  of  this  fault,  much  as 
I  love  and  revere  the  personal  character  and  intellectual 
vigor  of  Dr.  Johnson,  I  cannot  deny  that  his  style  often 
outruns  the  sense  and  the  occasion,  and  is  wanting  in 
that  simplicity  which  is  the  attribute  of  genius.  Still,  25 
granting  all  this,  I  cannot  grant,  notwithstanding,  that 
genius  never  need  take  pains, — that  genius  may  not  im- 
prove by  practice, — that  it  never  incurs  failures,  and 


262  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

succeeds  the  second  time, — that  it  never  finishes  off 
at  leisure  what  it  has  thrown  off  in  the  outline  at  a 
stroke. 

Take  the  instance  of  the  painter  or  the  sculptor;  he 
5  has  a  conception  in  his  mind  which  he  wishes  to  repre- 
sent in  the  medium  of  his  art; — the  Madonna  and  Child, 
or  Innocence,  or  Fortitude,  or  some  historical  character 
or  event.  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  does  not  study  his 
subject?  does  he  not  make  sketches?  does  he  not  even 

10  call  them  "studies"?  does  he  not  call  his  workroom  a 
studio?  is  he  not  ever  designing,  rejecting,  adopting,  cor- 
recting, perfecting  ?  Are  not  the  first  attempts  of  Michael 
Angelo  and  Raffaelle  extant,  in  the  case  of  some  of  their 
most  celebrated  compositions?     Will  any  one  say  that 

15  the  Apollo  Belvidere  is  not  a  conception  patiently 
elaborated  into  its  proper  perfection?  These  depart- 
ments of  taste  are,  according  to  the  received  notions  of 
the  world,  the  very  province  of  genius,  and  yet  we  call 
them  arts;  they  are  the  "  Fine  Arts."    Why  may  not  that 

20  be  true  of  literary  composition  which  is  true  of  paint- 
ing, sculpture,  architecture,  and  music?  Why  may  not 
language  be  wrought  as  well  as  the  clay  of  the  modeler  ? 
why  may  not  words  be  worked  up  as  well  as  colors? 
why  should  not  skill  in  diction  be  simply  subservient 

25  and  instrumental  to  the  great  prototypal  ideas  which  are 
the  contemplation  of  a  Plato  or  a  Virgil?  Our  greatest 
poet  tells  us, 

"The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
30  And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 


LITERATURE  263 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Now,  is  it  wonderful  that  that  pen  of  his  should  some- 
times be  at   fault  for  a  while, — that  it  should  pause,    5 
write,  erase,  re-write,  amend,  complete,  before  he  satis- 
fies himself  that  his  language  has  done  justice  to  the 
conceptions  which  his  mind's  eye  contemplated  ? 

In  this  point  of  view,  doubtless,  many  or  most  writers 
are  elaborate;  and  those  certainly  not  the  least  whose  10 
style  is  furthest  removed  from  ornament,  being  simple 
and  natural,  or  vehement,  or  severely  business-like  and 
practical.  Who  so  energetic  and  manly  as  Demos- 
thenes ?  Yet  he  is  said  to  have  transcribed  Thucydides 
many  times  over  in  the  formation  of  his  style.  Who  so  15 
gracefully  natural  as  Herodotus?  yet  his  very  dialect 
is  not  his  own,  but  chosen  for  the  sake  of  the  perfection 
of  his  narrative.  Who  exhibits  such  happy  negligence 
as  our  own  Addison?  yet  artistic  fastidiousness  was  so 
notorious  in  his  instance  that  the  report  has  got  abroad,  20 
truly  or  not,  that  he  was  too  late  in  his  issue  of  an  im- 
portant state  paper,  from  his  habit  of  revision  and  re- 
composition.  Such  great  authors  were  working  by  a 
model  which  was  before  the  eyes  of  their  intellect,  and 
they  were  laboring  to  say  what  they  had  to  say,  in  such  25 
a  way  as  would  most  exactly  and  suitably  express  it. 
It  is  not  wonderful  that  other  authors,  whose  style  is 
not  simple,  should  be  instances  of  a  similar  literary 
diligence.  Virgil  wished  his  JEneid  to  be  burned,  elab- 
orate as  is  its  composition,  because  he  felt  it  needed  30 


264  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

more  labor  still,  in  order  to  make  it  perfect.  The  his- 
torian Gibbon  in  the  last  century  is  another  instance  in 
point.  You  must  not  suppose  I  am  going  to  recommend 
his  style  for  imitation,  any  more  than  his  principles; 
5  but  I  refer  to  him  as  the  example  of  a  writer  feeling  the 
task  which  lay  before  him,  feeling  that  he  had  to  bring 
out  into  words  for  the  comprehension  of  his  readers  a 
great  and  complicated  scene,  and  wishing  that  those 
words  should  be  adequate  to  his  undertaking.    I  think 

10  he  wrote  the  first  chapter  of  his  History  three  times  over; 
it  was  not  that  he  corrected  or  improved  the  first  copy; 
but  he  put  his  first  essay,  and  then  his  second,  aside — 
he  recast  his  matter,  till  he  had  hit  the  precise  exhibition 
of  it  which  he  thought  demanded  by  his  subject. 

15  Now  in  all  these  instances,  I  wish  you  to  observe, 
that  what  I  have  admitted  about  literary  workmanship 
differs  from  the  doctrine  which  I  am  opposing  in  this, — 
that  the  mere  dealer  in  words  cares  little  or  nothing  for 
the  subject  which  he  is  embellishing,  but  can  paint  and 

20  gild  anything  whatever  to  order;  whereas  the  artist, 
whom  I  am  acknowledging,  has  his  great  or  rich  visions 
before  him,  and  his  only  aim  is  to  bring  out  what  he 
thinks  or  what  he  feels  in  a  way  adequate  to  the  thing 
spoken  of,  and  appropriate  to  the  speaker. 

7 

25      The  illustration  which  I  have  been  borrowing  from 

the  Fine  Arts  will  enable  me  to  go  a  step  further.     I 

have  been  showing  the  connection  of  the  thought  with 

the  language  in  literary  composition;  and  in  doing  so 


LITERATURE  265 

I  have  exposed  the  unphilosophical  notion,  that  the 
language  was  an  extra  which  could  be  dispensed  with, 
and  provided  to  order  according  to  the  demand.  But  I 
have  not  yet  brought  out,  what  immediately  follows  from 
this,  and  which  was  the  second  point  which  I  had  to  5 
show,  viz.,  that  to  be  capable  of  easy  translation  is  no 
test  of  the  excellence  of  a  composition.  If  I  must  say 
what  I  think,  I  should  lay  down,  with  little  hesitation, 
that  the  truth  was  almost  the  reverse  of  this  doctrine. 
Nor  are  many  words  required  to  show  it.  Such  a  doc-  10 
trine,  as  is  contained  in  the  passage  of  the  author  whom 
I  quoted  when  I  began,  goes  upon  the  assumption  that 
one  language  is  just  like  another  language, — that  every 
language  has  all  the  ideas,  turns  of  thought,  delicacies 
of  expression,  figures,  associations,  abstractions,  points  15 
of  view,  which  every  other  language  has.  Now,  as  far 
as  regards  Science,  it  is  true  that  all  languages  are  pretty 
much  alike  for  the  purposes  of  Science;  but  even  in  this 
respect  some  are  more  suitable  than  others,  which  have 
to  coin  words,  or  to  borrow  them,  in  order  to  express  20 
scientific  ideas.  But  if  languages  are  not  all  equally 
adapted  even  to  furnish  symbols  for  those  universal  and 
eternal  truths  in  which  Science  consists,  how  can  they 
reasonably  be  expected  to  be  all  equally  rich,  equally 
forcible,  equally  musical,  equally  exact,  equally  happy  25 
in  expressing  the  idiosyncratic  peculiarities  of  thought 
of  some  original  and  fertile  mind,  who  has  availed  him- 
self of  one  of  them?  A  great  author  takes  his  native 
language,  masters  it,  partly  throws  himself  into  it,  partly 
molds  and  adapts  it,  and  pours  out  his  multitude  of  30 


266  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

ideas  through  the  variously  ramified  and  delicately 
minute  channels  of  expression  which  he  has  found  or 
framed: — does  it  follow  that  this  his  personal  presence 
(as  it  may  be  called)  can  forthwith  be  transferred  to 
5  every  other  language  under  the  sun?  Then  may  we 
reasonably  maintain  that  Beethoven's  piano  music  is 
not  really  beautiful,  because  it  cannot  be  played  on  the 
hurdy-gurdy.  Were  not  this  astonishing  doctrine  main- 
tained by  persons  far  superior  to  the  writer  whom  I 

10  have  selected  for  animadversion,  I  should  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  be  patient  under  a  gratuitous  extravagance.  It 
seems  that  a  really  great  author  must  admit  of  transla- 
tion, and  that  we  have  a  test  of  his  excellence  when  he 
reads  to  advantage  in  a  foreign  language  as  well  as  in 

15  his  own.  Then  Shakespeare  is  a  genius  because  he  can 
be  translated  into  German,  and  not  a  genius  because 
he  cannot  be  translated  into  French.  Then  the  multi- 
plication table  is  the  most  gifted  of  all  conceivable  com- 
positions, because  it  loses  nothing  by  translation,  and 

20  can  hardly  be  said  to  belong  to  any  one  language  what- 
ever. Whereas  I  should  rather  have  conceived  that,  in 
proportion  as  ideas  are  novel  and  recondite,  they,  would 
be  difficult  to  put  into  words,  and  that  the  very  fact  of 
their  having  insinuated  themselves  into  one  language 

25  would  diminish  the  chance  of  that  happy  accident  being 
repeated  in  another.  In  the  language  of  savages  you  can 
hardly  express  any  idea  or  act  of  the  intellect  at  all: 
is  the  tongue  of  the  Hottentot  or  Esquimaux  to  be  made 
the  measure  of  the  genius  of  Plato,  Pindar,  Tacitus, 

30  St.  Jerome,  Dante,  or  Cervantes? 


LITERATURE  267 

Let  us  recur,  I  say,  to  the  illustration  of  the  Fine  Arts. 
I  suppose  you  can  express  ideas  in  painting  which  you 
cannot  express  in  sculpture;  and  the  more  an  artist  is 
of  a  painter,  the  less  he  is  likely  to  be  of  a  sculptor.  The 
more  he  commits  his  genius  to  the  methods  and  con-  5 
ditions  of  his  own  art,  the  less  he  will  be  able  to  throw 
himself  into  the  circumstances  of  another.  Is  the  genius 
of  Fra  Angelico,  of  Francia,  or  of  Raffaelle  disparaged 
by  the  fact  that  he  was  able  to  do  that  in  colors  which 
no  man  that  ever  lived,  which  no  Angel,  could  achieve  10 
in  wood?  Each  of  the  Fine  Arts  has  its  own  subject- 
matter;  from  the  nature  of  the  case  you  can  do  in  one 
what  you  cannot  do  in  another;  you  can  do  in  painting 
what  you  cannot  do  in  carving;  you  can  do  in  oils  what 
you  cannot  do  in  fresco;  you  can  do  in  marble  what  15 
you  cannot  do  in  ivory;  you  can  do  in  wax  what  you 
cannot  do  in  bronze.  Then,  I  repeat,  applying  this  to 
the  case  of  languages,  why  should  not  genius  be  able  to 
do  in  Greek  what  it  cannot  do  in  Latin?  and  why  are 
its  Greek  and  Latin  works  defective  because  they  will  20 
not  turn  into  English?  That  genius,  of  which  we  are 
speaking,  did  not  make  English;  it  did  not  make  all 
languages,  present,  past,  and  future;  it  did  not  make 
the  laws  of  any  language:  why  is  it  to  be  judged  of  by 
that  in  which  it  had  no  part,  over  which  it  has  no  25 
control? 

8 

And  now  we  are  naturally  brought  on  to  our  third 
point,  which  is  on  the  characteristics  of  Holy  Scripture 


268  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

as  compared  with  profane  literature.  Hitherto  we  have 
been  concerned  with  the  doctrine  of  these  writers,  viz., 
that  style  is  an  extra,  that  it  is  a  mere  artifice,  and  that 
hence  it  cannot  be  translated;  now  we  come  to  their 
5  fact,  viz.,  that  Scripture  has  no  such  artificial  style,  and 
that  Scripture  can  easily  be  translated.  Surely  their 
fact  is  as  untenable  as  their  doctrine. 

Scripture  easy  of  translation!  then  why  have  there 
been  so  few  good  translators?  why  is  it  that  there  has 

io  been  such  great  difficulty  in  combining  the  two  necessary 
qualities,  fidelity  to  the  original  and  purity  in  the  adopted 
vernacular  ?  why  is  it  that  the  authorized  versions  of  the 
Church  are  often  so  inferior  to  the  original  as  compo- 
sitions, except  that  the  Church  is  bound  above  all  things 

15  to  see  that  the  version  is  doctrinally  correct,  and  in  a 
difficult  problem  is  obliged  to  put  up  with  defects  in 
what  is  of  secondary  importance,  provided  she  secure 
what  is  of  first  ?  If  it  were  so  easy  to  transfer  the  beauty 
of  the  original  to  the  copy,  she  would  not  have  been 

20  content  with  her  received  version  in  various  languages 
which  could  be  named. 

And  then  in  the  next  place,  Scripture  not  elaborate! 
Scripture  not  ornamented  in  diction,  and  musical  in 
cadence!    Why,  consider  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews — 

25  where  is  there  in  the  classics  any  composition  more  care- 
fully, more  artificially  written?  Consider  the  book  of 
Job — is  it  not  a  sacred  drama,  as  artistic,  as  perfect,  as 
any  Greek  tragedy  of  Sophocles  or  Euripides?  Con- 
sider the  Psalter — are  there  no  ornaments,  no  rhythm,  no 

30  studied  cadences,  no  responsive  members,  in  that  di- 


LITERATURE  269 

vinely  beautiful  book?  And  is  it  not  hard  to  understand? 
are  not  the  Prophets  hard  to  understand  ?  is  not  St.  Paul 
hard  to  understand?  Who  can  say  that  these  are  pop- 
ular compositions?  who  can  say  that  they  are  level  at 
first  reading  with  the  understandings  of  the  multitude?    5 

That  there  are  portions  indeed  of  the  inspired  volume 
more  simple  both  in  style  and  in  meaning,  and  that 
these  are  the  more  sacred  and  sublime  passages,  as,  for 
instance,  parts  of  the  Gospels,  I  grant  at  once;  but  this 
does  not  militate  against  the  doctrine  I  have  been  lay-  10 
ing  down.     Recollect,  Gentlemen,  my  distinction  when 
I  began.    I  have  said  Literature  is  one  thing,  and  that 
Science  is  another;  that  Literature  has  to  do  with  ideas, 
and  Science  with  realities;  that  Literature  is  of  a  personal 
character,  that  Science  treats  of  what  is  universal  and  15 
eternal.     In  proportion,  then,  as  Scripture  excludes  the 
personal  coloring  of  its  writers,  and  rises  into  the  region 
of  pure  and  mere  inspiration,  when  it  ceases  in  any 
sense  to  be  the  writing  of  man,  of  St.  Paul  or  St.  John, 
of  Moses  or  Isaias,  then  it  comes  to  belong  to  Science,  20 
not  Literature.     Then  it  conveys  the  things  of  heaven, 
unseen  verities,  divine  manifestations,  and  them  alone — 
not  the  ideas,  the  feelings,  the  aspirations,  of  its  human 
instruments,  who,  for  all  that  they  were  inspired  and 
infallible,  did  not  cease  to  be  men.     St.  Paul's  epistles,  25 
then,  I  consider  to  be  literature  in  a  real  and  true  sense, 
as  personal,  as  rich  in  reflection  and  emotion,  as  De- 
mosthenes  or   Euripides;   and,   without   ceasing   to   be 
revelations  of  objective  truth,  they  are  expressions  of 
the  subjective  notwithstanding.     On  the  other  hand,  30 


270  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

portions  of  the  Gospels,  of  the  book  of  Genesis,  and 
other  passages  of  the  Sacred  Volume,  are  of  the  nature 
of  Science.  Such  is  the  beginning  of  St.  John's  Gospel, 
which  we  read  at  the  end  of  Mass.  Such  is  the  Creed. 
5  I  mean,  passages  such  as  these  are  the  mere  enunciation 
of  eternal  things,  without  (so  to  say)  the  medium  of  any 
human  mind  transmitting  them  to  us.  The  words  used 
have  the  grandeur,  the  majesty,  the  calm,  unimpassioned 
beauty  of  Science;  they  are  in  no  sense  Literature,  they 

10  are  in  no  sense  personal;  and  therefore  they  are  easy  to 
apprehend,  and  easy  to  translate. 

Did  time  admit  I  could  show  you  parallel  instances  of 
what  I  am  speaking  of  in  the  Classics,  inferior  to  the 
inspired  word  in  proportion  as  the  subject-matter  of  the 

15  classical  authors  is  immensely  inferior  to  the  subjects 
treated  of  in  Scripture — but  parallel,  inasmuch  as  the 
classical  author  or  speaker  ceases  for  the  moment  to 
have  to  do  with  Literature,  as  speaking  of  things  ob- 
jectively, and  rises  to  the  serene  sublimity  of  Science. 

20  But  I  should  be  carried  too  far  if  I  began. 

9 
I  shall  then  merely  sum  up  what  I  have  said,  and 
come  to  a  conclusion.  Reverting,- then,  to  my  original 
question,  what  is  the  meaning  of  Letters,  as  contained, 
Gentlemen,  in  the  designation  of  your  Faculty,  I  have 
25  answered,  that  by  Letters  or  Literature  is  meant  the 
expression  of  thought  in  language,  where  by  "thought" 
I  mean  the  ideas,  feelings,  views,  reasonings,  and  other 
operations  of  the  human  mind.    And  the  Art  of  Letters 


LITERATURE  27 1 

is  the  method  by  which  a  speaker  or  writer  brings  out 
in  words,  worthy  of  his  subject,  and  sufficient  for  his 
audience  or  readers,  the  thoughts  which  impress  him. 
Literature,  then,  is  of  a  personal  character;  it  consists  in 
the  enunciations  and  teachings  of  those  who  have  a  right    5 
to  speak  as  representatives  of  their  kind,  and  in  whose 
words  their  brethren  find  an  interpretation  of  their  own 
sentiments,  a  record  of  their  own  experience,  and  a 
suggestion  for  their  own  judgments.     A  great  author, 
Gentlemen,  is  not  one  who  merely  has  a  copia  verborum,  10 
whether  in  prose  or  verse,  and  can,  as  it  were,  turn  on  at 
his  will  any  number  of  splendid  phrases  and  swelling 
sentences;  but  he  is  one  who  has  something  to  say  and 
knows  how  to  say  it.    I  do  not  claim  for  him,  as  such, 
any  great  depth  of  thought,  or  breadth  of  view,  or  philos-  15 
ophy,  or  sagacity,  or  knowledge  of  human  nature,  or 
experience  of  human  life,  though  these  additional  gifts 
he  may  have,  and  the  more  he  has  of  them  the  greater 
he  is;  but  I  ascribe  to  him,  as  his  characteristic  gift,  in 
a  large  sense  the  faculty  of  Expression.    He  is  master  of  20 
the  two-fold  Logos,  the  thought  and  the  word,  distinct, 
but  inseparable  from  each  other.     He  may,  if  so  be, 
elaborate  his  compositions,  or  he  may  pour  out  his  im- 
provisations, but  in  either  case  he  has  but  one  aim, 
which  he  keeps  steadily  before  him,  and  is  conscientious  25 
and  single-minded  in  fulfilling.    That  aim  is  to  give  forth 
what  he  has  within  him;  and  from  his  very  earnestness 
it  comes  to  pass  that,  whatever  be  the  splendor  of  his 
diction  or  the  harmony  of  his  periods,  he  has  with  him 
the  charm  of  an  incommunicable  simplicity.    Whatever  30 


272  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

be  his  subject,  high  or  low,  he  treats  it  suitably  and  for 
its  own  sake.  If  he  is  a  poet,  "  nil  molitur  inepte."  If  he 
is  an  orator,  then  too  he  speaks,  not  only  "distincte" 
and  "splendiie,"  but  also  "apte."  His  page  is  the  lucid 
5  mirror  of  his  mind  and  life — 

"  Quo  fit,  ut  omnis 
Votiva  pateat  veluti  descripta  tabella 
Vita  senis." 

He  writes  passionately,  because  he  feels  keenly;  for- 

10  cibly,  because  he  conceives  vividly;  he  sees  too  clearly 
to  be  vague;  he  is  too  serious  to  be  otiose;  he  can  analyze 
his  subject,  and  therefore  he  is  rich;  he  embraces  it  as 
a  whole  and  in  its  parts,  and  therefore  he  is  consistent; 
he  has  a  firm  hold  of  it,  and  therefore  he  is  luminous. 

15  When  his  imagination  wells  up,  it  overflows  in  orna- 
ment; when  his  heart  is  touched,  it  thrills  along  his 
verse.  He  always  has  the  right  word  for  the  right  idea, 
and  never  a  word  too  much.  If  he  is  brief,  it  is  because 
few  words  suffice;  when  he  is  lavish  of  them,  still  each 

20  word  has  its  mark,  and  aids,  not  embarrasses,  the 
vigorous  march  of  his  elocution.  He  expresses  what  all 
feel,  but  all  cannot  say;  and  his  sayings  pass  into  prov- 
erbs among  his  people,  and  his  phrases  become  house- 
hold words  and  idioms  of  their  daily  speech,  which  is 

25  tesselated  with  the  rich  fragments  of  his  language,  as 

we  see  in  foreign  lands  the  marbles  of  Roman  grandeur 

worked  into  the  walls  and  pavements  of  modern  palaces. 

Such  preeminently  is  Shakespeare  among  ourselves; 

such   preeminently  Virgil   among  the   Latins;   such  in 

30  their  degree  are  all  those  writers  who  in  every  nation 


LITERATURE  273 

go  by  the  name  of  Classics.  To  particular  nations  they 
are  necessarily  attached  from  the  circumstance  of  the 
variety  of  tongues,  and  the  peculiarities  of  each;  but  so 
far  they  have  a  catholic  and  ecumenical  character,  that 
what  they  express  is  common  to  the  whole  race  of  man,  5 
and  they  alone  are  able  to  express  it. 

10 

If  then  the  power  of  speech  is  a  gift  as  great  as  any 
that  can  be  named, — if  the  origin  of  language  is  by 
many  philosophers  even  considered  to  be  nothing  short 
of  divine, — if  by  means  of  words  the  secrets  of  the  heart  10 
are  brought  to  light,  pain  of  soul  is  relieved,  hidden 
grief  is  carried  off,  sympathy  conveyed,  counsel  imparted, 
experience  recorded,  and  wisdom   perpetuated, — if   by 
great  authors  the  many  are  drawn  up  into  unity,  na- 
tional character  is  fixed,  a  people  speaks,  the  past  and  15 
the  future,  the  East  and  the  West  are  brought  into  com- 
munication with  each  other, — if  such  men  are,  in  a  word, 
the  spokesmen  and  prophets  of  the  human  family, — it 
will  not  answer  to  make  light  of  Literature  or  to  neglect 
its  study;  rather  we  may  be  sure  that,  in  proportion  as  20 
we  master  it  in  whatever  language,  and  imbibe  its  spirit, 
we   shall   ourselves   become   in   our   own   measure   the 
ministers  of  like  benefits  to  others,  be  they  many  or  few, 
be  they  in  the  obscurer  or  the  more  distinguished  walks 
of  life, — who  are  united  to  us  by  social  ties,  and  are  25 
within  the  sphere  of  our  personal  influence. 

Prose — 18 


WALTER  BAGEHOT 

[Walter  Bagehot  was  born  at  Langport,  Somersetshire,  England, 
in  1826.  He  was  educated  at  Bristol  and  later  at  University  Col- 
lege, London,  where  he  took  his  M.  A.  in  1848.  He  then  began 
the  study  of  law,  and  in  1852  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  He  did 
not  practice,  however,  but,  instead,  he  entered  into  business  with 
his  father  who  was  a  banker  and  shipowner  at  Langport.  He 
soon  became  a  writer  for  periodicals,  and  was  associated  with 
R.  H.  Hutton  on  the  National  Review,  to  which  he  contributed 
most  of  his  critical  essays.  In  i860,  through  the  death  of  his 
father-in-law,  Bagehot  became  editor  of  a  weekly  newspaper  called 
The  Economist.  Among  his  writings  are  The  English  Constitu- 
tion (1867),  Physics  and  Politics  (1872),  perhaps  his  greatest  and 
certainly  his  best-known  work,  and  Lombard  Street,  a  book  on  the 
monej-  market.  Two  years  after  Bagehot's  death,  which  occurred 
in  1877,  there  was  published  a  collection  of  his  studies,  biograph- 
ical, economic,  and  literary,  edited  by  his  friend  R.  H.  Hutton.] 

It  is  not  without  significance  that  some  of  the  most 
acute  and  stimulating  essays  in  criticism  written  in 
England  during  the  nineteenth  century  came  from  the 
pen  of  a  man  who  was  not  only  a  critic  of  literature, 
but  also  an  able  banker,  a  skilled  political  economist, 
and  a  most  keen  interpreter  of  the  English  constitution. 
Walter  Bagehot  brought  to  the  criticism  of  men  and 
books  a  masculine  nature,  a  sense  of  humor,  a  catholic 
taste,  a  freshness  of  view,  and,  in  a  word,  that  delight- 
ful sanity  which  is  perhaps  the  distinguishing  char- 
acteristic of  a  man  of  the  world  of  the  high  type.  He 
liked  books  that  suggested  the  "talk  of  the  manifold 
talker,  glancing  lightly  from  topic  to  topic,  suggesting 

274 


WALTER   BAGEHOT  275 

deep  things  in  a  jest,  unfolding  unanswerable  arguments 
in  an  absurd  illustration."  He  did  not  care  for  Ma- 
caulay  because  Macaulay,  he  thought,  was  a  book- 
made  man,  a  "prey  to  print;"  but  he  never  tired  of 
praising  Walter  Scott,  whose  novels  revealed  to  him  a 
hearty  nature,  a  healthy  mind.  We  may  be  sure  that 
he  was  proud  to  count  himself  among  Englishmen,  of 
whom  he  said,  "We  excel  in  strong,  noble  imagination, 
in  solid  stuff." 

To  this  robust,  practical  English  character,  there 
was  added  a  quick,  penetrating  intelligence,  which 
makes  us  think  of  Bagehot  as  a  man  with  both  French 
and  German  blood  in  his  veins.  The  irony  in  his  humor, 
his  aptness  and  fertility  in  illustration,  together  with 
his  scorn  of  dullness,  suggest  the  Gallic  mind;  while 
his  zest  in  speculation  and  above  all  his  innate  sense  of 
a  spiritual  world  behind  our  material  one,  prompt  us 
to  believe  that  Bagehot,  like  many  Germans,  was  born 
for  metaphysical  inquiry.  He  evidently  delights  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  inmost  workings  of  man's  higher 
faculties  and  he  seems  ever  in  wait,  as  he  reads  his 
author,  for  the  deeper,  if  shadowy,  meanings,  for  the 
chance  intimations  of  a  presence  that  disturbs  him  with 
the  joy  of  elevated  thoughts.  Wordsworth  is,  in  fact,  his 
favorite  poet,  whom  he  quotes  as  he  takes  leave  of  the 
gay,  worldly  muse  of  Beranger,  or  as  he  turns  with  re- 
lief from  the  hard  Whiggism  of  Jeffrey,  and  whose 
works  he  does  not  hesitate  to  call  "the  Scriptures  of 
the  intellectual  life." 

Bagehot's  literary  criticism  shows  both  the  excellen- 
cies and  the  defects  of  this  practical,  this  speculative 
mind.  We  have  in  his  essays  the  searching,  independ- 
ent, stimulating  opinions  of  an  active  intelligence.  We 
have,  as  it  were,  the  bracing  air  of  outdoors  blown  into 
our  library  and  across  our  page.  We  have  the  man  who 
knows  politics  and  business  as  few  know  them,  analyzing 


276  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

for  us  the  prose  of  Gibbon,  of  Macaulay  and  of  Jeffrey, 
and  the  poetry  of  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  of  Shelley 
and  Tennyson.  The  impression  of  such  a  man  must 
ever  be  quickening,  provided  always  he  displays,  as 
Bagehot  indeed  does,  a  mind  broad  and  cultivated 
subtle  and  penetrating.  But  Bagehot  had  not  his  spec- 
ulative tendencies  well  in  command.  In  his  haste  to 
discover  the  "type,"  in  his  desire  to  classify  his  ma- 
terial, he  deals  too  largely  in  theory  to  suit  the  liberal 
reader.  As  soon  as  he  studies  a  character  or  a  book, 
he  wishes  to  label  it,  apparently,  to  fence  it  about  with 
arbitrary,  and  often  cramping,  limitations.  To  be  sure, 
in  so  competent  an  essayist  as  Bagehot,  this  method 
leaves  us  generally  with  broad,  common  sense  classifi- 
cations. It  is  of  advantage,  for  example,  to  know  that 
Shelley's  was  an  "impulsive,"  and  Milton's  an  "ascetic, 
character,"  that  Dickens'  genius  was  "irregular,"  that 
Hartley  Coleridge  was  a  "  self-delineative "  poet,  that 
novels  are  "ubiquitous"  or  "sentimental,"  and  that 
biographers  are  either  "exhaustive"  or  "selective," 
and  so  on.  But  this  method  is  after  all  not  the  method 
of  the  greatest  criticism,  because  it  has  no  basis  in  con- 
sistent and  profound  principles.  We  do  not  feel  that 
the  judgments  of  Bagehot  have  their  roots  in  a  har- 
monious philosophy  of  life,  as  have  those  of  Carlyle, 
or  that  they  are  founded  upon  a  definite  doctrine  of 
criticism,  as  are  those  of  Arnold  and  of  Pater.  Each 
essay  is  an  independent  entity,  immensely  stimulating  to 
the  thoughtful  reader,  and  each  is  a  brilliant  specimen 
of  "popular  criticism,"  to  use  a  phrase  that  Bagehot 
himself  applied  to  one  of  them.  Yet  they  nowhere  show 
that  the  critic  appreciated  literature  in  terms  of  a  deliber- 
ately reasoned,  comprehensive  criterion. 

The  essay  on  Pure,  Ornate  and  Grotesque  Art  is  ad- 
mirably representative  of  Bagehot's  criticism  both  in 
method  and  in  style.    We  here  observe  the  large-minded 


WALTER   BAGEHOT  277 

man  of  affairs  judging  the  poetry  of  the  masters  accord- 
ing to  certain  "simple  principles  of  art."  He  puts 
literature  to  the  test  of  life.  He  brings  his  subject  into 
the  light  of  an  intellect  most  practical  and  most  specu- 
lative, at  once  shrewd,  quick-glancing,  and  acute.  The 
serious  student  is  startled  into  attention.  He  is  aroused 
by  a  trenchant  and  systematic  discussion  of  poetry, 
until  at  last  he  probably  wishes  to  challenge  the  bold 
theories  advanced  by  the  critic.  To  awaken  this  spirit 
is  possibly  the  highest  service  literary  criticism  can  ren- 
der, the  richest  pleasure  it  can  communicate.  But 
Bagehot's  method,  upon  a  second  and  deeper  examina- 
tion, is  perhaps  seen  to  suffer  from  the  defects  of  its 
qualities.  Although  the  classification  of  art  into  pure, 
ornate,  and  grotesque  is  most  suggestive,  and  though 
it  by  no  means  implies  that  all  of  Wordsworth's  poetry 
belongs  to  the  first  kind,  all  of  Tennyson's  to  the  second, 
or  all  of  Browning's  to  the  third,  yet  it  is  a  classification 
at  bottom  arbitrary  and  without  scientific  exactness.  The 
material  in  the  essay  would  have  to  be  subjected  to  the 
test  of  a  higher  standard  of  criticism,  if  it  were  to  re- 
ceive an  appreciation  that  would  carry  with  it  any 
degree  of  finality. 

Bagehot's  ideal  of  composition  is  expressed  in  his 
remark  that  "  the  knack  in  style  is  to  write  like  a  human 
being."  Like  the  style  of  Sydney  Smith,  which  Bage- 
hot  praised,  "it  goes  straight  to  its  object:  it  is  not  re- 
strained by  the  gentle  hindrances,  the  delicate  decorums 
of  refining  natures."  We  cannot  think  of  Bagehot  de- 
liberating upon  the  refinements  of  expression  as  did 
Newman  and  Pater,  those  masters  in  the  art  of  higher 
rhetoric.  He  has,  however,  a  luminous  and  telling  man- 
ner of  composition,  often  most  felicitous,  as  when  he 
says  that  "a  man  who  has  not  read  Homer  is  like  a 
man  who  has  not  seen  the  ocean."  He  recognized  a 
"certain  clumsiness"  in  all  the  Germanic  languages, 


278  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

and  his  own  style  not  infrequently  reminds  one  of 
the  clearness,  the  flexibility,  of  French  prose.  An  in- 
stance of  his  wit  is  the  cool  comment  that  "among  the 
disciples  of  Carlyle  it  is  considered  that  having  been 
born  a  Puritan  is  the  next  best  thing  to  having  been  in 
Germany;"  and  also  his  assertion  that  "it  is  easy  for 
a  doctrinaire  to  bear  a  post-mortem  examination, — it 
is  much  the  same  whether  he  be  alive  or  dead."  Though 
the  present  essay  lacks  this  two-edged  wit,  and,  in  truth, 
is  almost  without  the  light  of  Bagehot's  humor,  it  is  in 
all  other  particulars  typical  of  his  style.  In  grasp,  as  well 
as  in  penetration  of  thought,  in  free  play  of  phrase,  it  is 
surpassed  by  no  other  of  his  literary  studies.  In  evenness 
and  firmness  of  manner  it  is  better  than  most. 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    AND    BROWNING;    OR,    PURE, 
ORNATE,    AND  GROTESQUE    ART  IN  ENGLISH  POETRY 

We  couple  these  two  books  a  together,  not  because  of 
their  likeness,  for  they  are  as  dissimilar  as  books  can  be; 
nor  on  account  of  the  eminence  of  their  authors,  for  in 
general  two  great  authors  are  too  much  for  one  essay; 
5  but  because  they  are  the  best  possible  illustration  of 
something  we  have  to  say  upon  poetical  art — because 
they  may  give  to  it  life  and  freshness.  The  accident  of 
contemporaneous  publication  has  here  brought  together 
two  books  very  characteristic  of  modern  art,  and  we  want 
10  to  show  how  they  are  characteristic. 

Neither  English  poetry  nor  English  criticism  have 
ever  recovered  the  eruption  which  they  both  made  at 
the  beginning  of  this  century  into  the  fashionable  world. 

1  Tennyson's  Enoch  Arden  and  Browning's  Dramatis  rersotuz 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    279 

The  poems  of  Lord  Byron  were  received  with  an  avidity 
that  resembles  our  present  avidity  for  sensation  novels, 
and  were  read  by  a  class  which  at  present  reads  little 
but  such  novels.  Old  men  who  remember  those  days 
may  be  heard  to  say:  "We  hear  nothing  of  poetry  now-  5 
adays;  it  seems  quite  down."  And  "down  "  it  certainly 
is,  if  for  poetry  it  be  a  descent  to  be  no  longer  the 
favorite  excitement  of  the  more  frivolous  part  of  the 
"upper"  world.  That  stimulating  poetry  is  now  little 
read.  A  stray  schoolboy  may  still  be  detected  in  a  IO 
wild  admiration  for  the  Giaour  or  the  Corsair  (and  it 
is  suitable  to  his  age,  and  he  should  not  be  re- 
proached for  it),  but  the  real  posterity — the  quiet  stu- 
dents of  a  past  literature — never  read  them  or  think  of 
them.  A  line  or  two  linger  on  the  memory;  a  few  tell-  15 
ing  strokes  of  occasional  and  felicitous  energy  are  quoted, 
but  this  is  all.  As  wholes,  these  exaggerated  stories 
were  worthless;  they  taught  nothing,  and  therefore  they 
are  forgotten.  If  nowadays  a  dismal  poet  were,  like 
Byron,  to  lament  the  fact  of  his  birth,  and  to  hint  he  20 
was  too  good  for  the  world,  the  Saturday  Reviewers 
would  say  that  "they  doubted  if  he  was  too  good;  that 
a  sulky  poet  was  a  questionable  addition  to  a  tolerable 
world;  that  he  need  not  have  been  born,  as  far  as  they 
were  concerned."  Doubtless,  there  is  much  in  Byron  25 
besides  his  dismal  exaggeration,  but  it  was  that  exag- 
geration which  made  "the  sensation"  which  gave  him 
a  wild  moment  of  dangerous  fame.  As  so  often  happens, 
the  cause  of  his  momentary  fashion  is  the  cause  also  of 
his  lasting   oblivion.     Moore's   former  reputation    was  30 


280  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

less  excessive,  yet  it  has  not  been  more  permanent 
The  prettiness  of  a  few  songs  preserves  the  memory  of 
his  name,  but  as  a  poet  to  read  he  is  forgotten.  There  is 
nothing  to  read  in  him;  no  exquisite  thought,  no  sublime 
5  feeling,  no  consummate  description  of  true  character. 
Almost  the  sole  result  of  the  poetry  of  that  time  is  the 
harm  which  it  has  done.  It  degraded  for  a  time  the 
whole  character  of  the  art.  It  said  by  practice,  by  a 
most  efficient  and  successful  practice,  that  it  was  the 

io  aim,  the  duty  of  poets,  to  catch  the  attention  of  the  pass- 
ing, the  fashionable,  the  busy  world.  If  a  poem  "fell 
dead,"  it  was  nothing;  it  was  composed  to  please  the 
"  London"  of  the  year,  and  if  that  London  did  not  like  it, 
why,  it  had  failed.     It  fixed  upon  the  minds  of  a  whole 

15  generation,  it  engraved  in  popular  memory  and  tradi- 
tion, a  vague  conviction  that  poetry  is  but  one  of  the 
many  amusements  for  the  enjoying  classes,  for  the  lighter 
hours  of  all  classes.  The  mere  notion,  the  bare  idea, 
that  poetry  is  a  deep  thing,  a  teaching  thing,  the  most 

20  surely  and  wisely  elevating  of  human  things,  is  even 
now  to  the  coarse  public  mind  nearly  unknown . 

As  was  the  fate  of  poetry,  so  inevitably  was  that  of 
criticism.  The  science  that  expounds  which  poetry  is 
good  and  which  is  bad,  is  dependent  for  its  popular  rep- 

25  utation  on  the  popular  estimate  of  poetry  itself.  The 
critics  of  that  day  had  a  day,  which  is  more  than  can  be 
said  for  some  since:  they  professed  to  tell  the  fashion- 
able world  in  what  books  it  would  find  new  pleasure, 
and  therefore  they  were  read  by  the  fashionable  world. 

30  Byron  counted  the  critic  and  poet  equal.     The  Edin- 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    281 

burgh  Review  penetrated  among  the  young,  and  into 
places  of  female  resort  where  it  does  not  go  now.  As 
people  ask,  "Have  you  read  Henry  Dunbar?  and  what 
do  you  think  of  it?"  so  they  then  asked,  " Have  you  read 
the  Giaour  and  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  Lord  5 
Jeffrey,  a  shrewd  judge  of  the  world,  employed  himself 
in  telling  it  what  to  think;  not  so  much  what  it  ought  to 
think,  as  what  at  bottom  it  did  think,  and  so  by  dexter- 
ous sympathy  with  current  society  he  gained  contem- 
porary fame  and  power.  Such  fame  no  critic  must  10 
hope  for  now.  His  articles  will  not  penetrate  where 
the  poems  themselves  do  not  penetrate.  When  poetry 
was  noisy,  criticism  was  loud;  now  poetry  is  a  still  small 
voice,  and  criticism  must  be  smaller  and  stiller.  As 
the  function  of  such  criticism  was  limited,  so  was  its  15 
subject.  For  the  great  and  (as  time  now  proves)  the 
permanent  part  of  the  poetry  of  his  time — for  Shelley 
and  for  Wordsworth — Lord  Jeffrey  had  but  one  word. 
He  said,  "It  won't  do."  And  it  will  not  do  to  amuse  a 
drawing-room.  20 

The  doctrine  that  poetry  is  a  light  amusement  for  idle 
hours,  a  metrical  species  of  sensational  novel,  did  not 
indeed  become  popular  without  gainsayers.  Thirty 
years  ago,  Mr.  Carlyle  most  rudely  contradicted  it. 
But  perhaps  this  is  about  all  that  he  has  done.  He  25 
has  denied,  but  he  has  not  disproved.  He  has  contra- 
dicted the  floating  paganism,  but  he  has  not  founded 
the  deep  religion.  All  about  and  around  us  a  faith 
in  poetry  struggles  to  be  extricated,  but  it  is  not  extri- 
cated.    Some  day,  at  the  touch  of  the  true  word,  the  30 


282  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

whole  confusion  will  by  magic  cease;  the  broken  and 
shapeless  notions  will  cohere  and  crystallize  into  a  bright 
and  true  theory.     But  this  cannot  be  yet. 

But  though  no  complete  theory  of  the  poetic  art  as 
5  yet  be  possible  for  us,  though  perhaps  only  our  children's 
children  will  be  able  to  speak  on  this  subject  with  the 
assured  confidence  which  belongs  to  accepted  truth, 
yet  something  of  some  certainty  may  be  stated  on  the 
easier  elements,  and  something  that  will  throw  light  on 

10  these  two  new  books.  But  it  will  be  necessary  to  as- 
sign reasons,  and  the  assigning  of  reasons  is  a  dry  task. 
Years  ago,  when  criticism  only  tried  to  show  how  poetry 
could  be  made  a  good  amusement,  it  was  not  impossible 
that  criticism  itself  should  be  amusing.      But  now  it 

15  must  at  least  be  serious,  for  we  believe  that  poetry  is  a 
serious  and  a  deep  thing. 

There  should  be  a  word  in  the  language  of  literary  art 
to  express  what  the  word  "picturesque"  expresses  for 
the  fine  arts.     Picturesque  means  fit  to  be  put  into  a 

20  picture;  we  want  a  word  liter  atesque,  "fit  to  be  put  into 
a  book."  An  artist  goes  through  a  hundred  different 
country  scenes,  rich  with  beauties,  charms  and  merits, 
but  he  does  not  paint  any  of  them.  He  leaves  them  alone; 
he  idles  on  till  he  finds  the  hundred-and-first — a  scene 

25  which  many  observers  would  not  think  much  of,  but 
which  he  knows  by  virtue  of  his  art  will  look  well  on 
canvas,  and  this  he  paints  and  preserves.  Susceptible 
observers,  though  not  artists,  feel  this  quality  too;  they 
say  of  a  scene,  "How  picturesque!"  meaning  by  this 

30  a  quality  distinct   from   that  of  beauty,  or   sublimity, 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    283 

or  grandeur — meaning  to  speak  not  only  of  the  scene 
as  it  is  in  itself,  but  also  of  its  fitness  for  imitation  by 
art;  meaning  not  only  that  it  is  good,  but  that  its  goodness 
is  such  as  ought  to  be  transferred  to  paper;  meaning  not 
simply  that  it  fascinates,  but  also  that  its  fascination  is  5 
such  as  ought  to  be  copied  by  man.  A  fine  and  insen- 
sible instinct  has  put  language  to  this  subtle  use;  it 
expresses  an  idea  without  which  fine  art  criticism  could 
not  go  on,  and  it  is  very  natural  that  the  language  of 
pictorial  art  should  be  better  supplied  with  words  than  10 
that  of  literary  criticism,  for  the  eye  was  used  before  the 
mind,  and  language  embodies  primitive  sensuous  ideas, 
long  ere  it  expresses,  or  need  express,  abstract  and  lit- 
erary ones. 

The  reason  why  a  landscape  is  "picturesque"  is  often  15 
said  to  be,  that  such  landscape  represents  an  "idea." 
But  this  explanation,  though,  in  the  minds  of  some  who 
use  it,  it  is  near  akin  to  the  truth,  fails  to  explain  that  truth 
to  those  who  did  not  know  it  before;  the  word  "idea" 
is  so  often  used  in  these  subjects  when  people  do  not  20 
know  anything  else  to  say;  it  represents  so  often  a  kind 
of  intellectual  insolvency,  when  philosophers  are  at 
their  wits'  end,  that  shrewd  people  will  never  readily  on 
any  occasion  give  it  credit  for  meaning  anything.  A 
wise  explainer  must,  therefore,  look  out  for  other  words  25 
to  convey  what  he  has  to  say.  Landscapes,  like  every- 
thing else  in  nature,  divide  themselves  as  we  look  at 
them  into  a  sort  of  rude  classification.  We  go  down  a 
river,  for  example,  and  we  see  a  hundred  landscapes  on 
both  sides  of  it,  resembling  one  another  in  much,  yet  30 


284  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

differing  in  something;  with  trees  here,  and  a  farm- 
house there,  and  shadows  on  one  side,  and  a  deep  pool 
far  on,  a  collection  of  circumstances  most  familiar  in 
themselves,  but  making  a  perpetual  novelty  by  the 
5  magic  of  their  various  combinations.  We  travel  so  for 
miles  and  hours,  and  then  we  come  to  a  scene  which 
also  has  these  various  circumstances  and  adjuncts, 
but  which  combines  them  best,  which  makes  the  best 
whole  of  them,  which  shows  them  in  their  best  propor- 

10  tion  at  a  single  glance  before  the  eye.  Then  we  say: 
"This  is  the  place  to  paint  the  river;  this  is  the  pictur- 
esque point!"  Or,  if  not  artists  or  critics  of  art,  we  feel 
without  analysis  or  examination  that  somehow  this  bend 
or  sweep  of  the  river  shall  in  future  be  the  river  to  us: 

15  that  it  is  the  image  of  it  which  we  will  retain  in  our  minds' 
eye,  by  which  we  will  remember  it,  which  we  will  call  up 
when  we  want  to  describe  or  think  of  it.  Some  fine 
countries,  some  beautiful  rivers,  have  not  this  pictur- 
esque quality:  they  give  us  elements  of  beauty,  but  they 

20  do  not  combine  them  together;  we  go  on  for  a  time  de- 
lighted, but  after  a  time  somehow  we  get  wearied;  we 
feel  that  we  are  taking  in  nothing  and  learning  nothing; 
we  get  no  collected  image  before  our  mind;  we  see  the 
accidents  and  circumstances   of  that   sort   of  scenerv, 

25  but  the  summary  scene  we  do  not  see;  we  find  disjecta 
membra,  but  no  form;  various  and  many  and  faulty 
approximations  are  displayed  in  succession;  but  the 
absolute  perfection  in  that  country's  or  river's  scenery — 
its  type — is  withheld.     We  go  away  from  such  places  in 

30  part  delighted,  but  in  part  baffled;  we  have  been  puzzled 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    285 

by  pretty  things;  we  have  beheld  a  hundred  different 
inconsistent  specimens  of  the  same  sort  of  beauty;  but 
the  rememberable  idea,  the  full  development,  the  char- 
acteristic individuality  of  it,  we  have  not  seen. 

We  find  the  same  sort  of  quality  in  all  parts  of  painting.    5 
We  see  a  portrait  of  a  person  we  know,  and  we  say,, 
"It  is  like — yes,  like,  of  course,  but  it  is  not  the  man;" 
we  feel  it  could  not  be  any  one  else,  but  still,  somehow 
it  fails  to  bring  home  to  us  the  individual  as  we  know 
him  to  be.     He  is  not  there.     An  accumulation  of  fea-  10 
tures  like  his  are  painted,  but  his  essence  is  not  painted; 
an  approximation  more  or  less  excellent  is  given,  but  the 
characteristic  expression,  the  typical  form,  of  the  man 
is  withheld. 

Literature — the  painting  of  words — has  the  same  15 
quality,  but  wants  the  analogous  word.  The  word 
" literatesque  "  would  mean,  if  we  possessed  it,  that  per- 
fect combination  in  subject-matter  of  literature,  which 
suits  the  art  of  literature.  We  often  meet  people,  and 
say  of  them,  sometimes  meaning  well  and  sometimes  20 
ill:  "How  well  so-and-so  would  do  in  a  book!"  Such 
people  are  by  no  means  the  best  people;  but  they  are 
the  most  effective  people — the  most  rememberable 
people.  Frequently,  when  we  first  know  them,  we 
like  them  because  they  explain  to  us  so  much  of  25 
our  experience;  we  have  known  many  people  "like 
that,"  in  one  way  or  another,  but  we  did  not  seem  to 
understand  them;  they  were  nothing  to  us,  for  their 
traits  were  indistinct;  we  forgot  them,  for  they  hitched 
on  to  nothing,  and   we  could  not  classify  them.     But  30 


286  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

when  we  see  the  type  of  the  genus,  at  once  we  seem  to 
comprehend  its  character;  the  inferior  specimens  are  ex- 
plained by  the  perfect  embodiment;  the  approxima- 
tions are  definable  when  we  know  the  ideal  to  which 
5  they  draw  near.  There  are  an  infinite  number  of  classes 
,of  human  beings,  but  in  each  of  these  classes  there 
is  a  distinctive  type  which,  if  we  could  expand  it  in 
words,  would  define  the  class.  We  cannot  expand  it 
in  formal  terms  any  more  than  a  landscape,  or  a  species 

10  of  landscape;  but  we  have  an  art,  an  art  of  words, 
which  can  draw  it.  Travelers  and  others  often  bring 
home,  in  addition  to  their  long  journals — which,  though 
so  living  to  them,  are  so  dead,  so  inanimate,  so  unde- 
scriptive  to  all  else — a  pen-and-ink  sketch,  rudely  done 

15  very  likely,  but  which,  perhaps,  even  the  more  for  the 
blots  and  strokes,  gives  a  distinct  notion,  an  emphatic 
image,  to  all  who  see  it.  We  say  at  once,  now  we  know 
the  sort  of  thing.  The  sketch  has  hit  the  mind.  True 
literature  does  the  same.     It  describes  sorts,  varieties, 

20  and  permutations,  by  delineating  the  type  of  each  sort, 
the  ideal  of  each  variety,  the  central,  the  marking  trait 
of  each  permutation. 

On  this  account,  the  greatest  artists  of  the  world  have 
ever  shown  an  enthusiasm  for  reality.    To  care  for  notions 

25  and  abstractions;  to  philosophize;  to  reason  out  conclu- 
sions; to  care  for  schemes  of  thought,  are  signs  in  the 
artistic  mind  of  secondary  excellence.  A  Schiller,  a 
Euripides,  a  Ben  Johnson,  cares  for  ideas — for  the  par- 
ings of  the  intellect,  and  the  distillation  of  the  mind; 

30  a  Shakespeare,  a  Homer,  a  Goethe,  finds  his  mental 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    287 

occupation,  the  true  home  of  his  natural  thoughts,  in 
the  real  world — "which  is  the  world  of  all  of  us"  — 
where  the  face  of  Nature,  the  moving  masses  of  men  and 
women,  are  ever  changing,  ever  multiplying,  ever  mixing 
one  with  the  other.  The  reason  is  plain — the  business  5 
of  the  poet,  of  the  artist,  is  with  types;  and  those  types  are 
mirrored  in  reality.  As  a  painter  must  not  only  have  a 
hand  to  execute,  but  an  eye  to  distinguish— as  he  must 
go  here  and  there  through  the  real  world  to  catch  the 
picturesque  man,  the  picturesque  scene,  which  is  to  live  10 
on  his  canvas- — so  the  poet  must  find  in  that  reality,  the 
literatesqne  man,  the  literatesqae  scene,  which  nature 
intends  for  him,  and  which  will  live  in  his  page.  Even 
in  reality  he  will  not  find  this  type  complete,  or  the 
characteristics  perfect;  but  there  he  will  find,  at  least,  15 
something,  some  hint,  some  intimation,  some  suggestion; 
whereas,  in  the  stagnant  home  of  his  own  thoughts  he 
will  find  nothing  pure,  nothing  as  it  is,  nothing  which 
does  not  bear  his  own  mark,  which  is  not  somehow 
altered  by  a  mixture  with  himself.  20 

The  first  conversation  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  illus- 
trates this  conception  of  the  poet's  art.  Goethe  was  at 
that  time  prejudiced  against  Schiller,  we  must  re- 
member, partly  from  what  he  considered  the  outrages 
of  the  Robbers,  partly  because  of  the  philosophy  of  2£ 
Kant.  Schiller's  Essay  on  Grace  and  Dignity^  he  tells 
us — 

"  Was  yet  less  of  a  kind  to  reconcile  me.  The  philosophy  of 
Kant,  which  exalts  the  dignity  of  mind  so  highly,  while  appearing 
to  restrict  it,  Schiller  had  joyfully  embraced:  it  unfolded  the  ex-  30 


288  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

traordinary  qualities  which  Nature  had  implanted  in  him ;  and  in 
the  lively  feeling  of  freedom  and  self-direction,  he  showed  himself 
unthankful  to  the  Great  Mother,  who  surely  had  not  acted  like  a 
step-dame  towards  him.  Instead  of  viewing  her  as  self-subsisting, 
5  as  producing  with  a  living  force,  and  according  to  appointed  laws, 
alike  the  highest  and  the  lowest  of  her  works,  he  took  her  up  un- 
der the  aspect  of  some  empirical  native  qualities  of  the  human 
mind.  Certain  harsh  passages  I  could  even  directly  apply  to  my- 
self:  they  exhibited  my  confession  of  faith  in  a  false  light ;  and  I 
10  felt  that  if  written  without  particular  attention  to  me,  they  were 
still  worse ;  for,  in  that  case,  the  vast  chasm  which  lay  between  us 
gaped  but  so  much  the  more  distinctly." 

After  a  casual  meeting  at  a  Society  for  Natural  His- 
tory, they  walked  home,  and  Goethe  proceeds:— 

15  "We  reached  his  house;  the  talk  induced  me  to  go  in.  I  then 
expounded  to  him,  with  as  much  vivacity  as  possible,  the  Meta- 
morphosis of  Plants,  drawing  out  on  paper,  with  many  characteris- 
tic strokes,  a  symbolic  plant  for  him,  as  I  proceeded.  He  heard 
and  saw  all  this,  with  much  interest  and  distinct  comprehension ; 

20  but  when  I  had  done,  he  shook  his  head  and  said:  'This  is  no 
experiment,  this  is  an  idea.'  I  stopped  with  some  degree  of  irri- 
tation; for  the  point  which  separated  us  was  most  luminously 
marked  by  this  expression.  The  opinions  in  Dignity  and  Grace 
again  occurred  to  me;  the  old  grudge  was  just  awakening;  but  I 

25  smothered  it,  and  merely  said:  '  I  was  happy  to  find  that  I  had 
got  ideas  without  knowing  it,  nay,  that  I  saw  them  before  my 
eyes.' 

"  Schiller  had  much  more  prudence  and  dexterity  of  manage- 
ment than  I ;  he  was  also  thinking  of  his  periodical  the  Iloren, 

30  about  this  time,  and  of  course  rather  wished  to  attract  than  repel 
me.  Accordingly,  he  answered  me  like  an  accomplished  Kantite; 
and  as  my  stiff-necked  Realism  gave  occasion  to  many  contradic- 
tions, much  battling  took  place  between  us,  and  at  last  a  truce,  in 
which  neither  party  would  consent  to  yield  the  victory,  but  each 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    289 

held  himself  invincible.  Positions  like  the  following  grieved  me 
to  the  very  soul :  How  can  there  ever  be  an  experiment,  that  shall 
correspond  with  an  idea  ?  The  specific  quality  of  an  idea  is,  that  no 
experiment  can  reach  it  or  agree  with  it.  Yet  if  he  held  as  an  idea, 
the  same  thing  which  I  looked  upon  as  an  experiment,  there  must  5 
certainly,  I  thought,  be  some  community  between  us — some  ground 
whereon  both  of  us  might  meet  1 " 

With  Goethe's  natural  history,  or  with  Kant's  philos- 
ophy, we  have  here  no  concern;  but  we  can  combine  the 
expressions  of  the  two  great  poets  into  a  nearly  complete  10 
description  of  poetry.     The   "symbolic   plant"   is  the 
type  of  which  we   speak,   the  ideal  at  which  inferior 
specimens  aim,  the  class  characteristic   which  they  all 
share,  but  which  none  shows  forth  fully.     Goethe  was 
right  in  searching  for  this  in  reality  and  nature;  Schiller  15 
was  right  in  saying  that  it  was  an  "idea,"  a  transcend- 
ing notion  to  which  approximations  could  be  found  in 
experience,  but  only  approximations — which  could  not 
be  found  there  itself.    Goethe,  as  a  poet,  rightly  felt  the 
primary  necessity  of  outward  suggestion  and  experience;  20 
Schiller,  as  a  philosopher,  rightly  felt  its  imperfection. 

But  in  these  delicate  matters,  it  is  easy  -to  misappre- 
hend. There  is,  undoubtedly,  a  sort  of  poetry  which  is 
produced  as  it  were  out  of  the  author's  mind.  The  de- 
scription of  the  poet's  own  moods  and  feelings  is  a  com-  25 
mon  sort  of  poetry — perhaps  the  commonest  sort.  But 
the  peculiarity  of  such  cases  is,  that  the  poet  does  not  de- 
scribe himself  as  himself:  autobiography  is  not  his  object; 
he  takes  himself  as  a  specimen  of  human  nature;  he  de- 
scribes, not  himself,  but  a  distillation  of  himself:  he  30 
Prose — 19 


290  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

takes  such  of  his  moods  as  are  most  characteristic,  as 
most  typify  certain  moods  of  certain  men,  or  certain 
moods  of  all  men;  he  chooses  preponderant  feelings  of 
special  sorts  of  men,  or  occasional  feelings  of  men  of  all 

5  sorts;  but  with  whatever  other  difference  and  diversity, 
the  essence  is  that  such  self-describing  poets  describe 
what  is  in  them,  but  not  peculiar  to  them,— what  is 
generic,  not  what  is  special  and  individual.  Gray's 
Elegy  describes  a  mood  which  Gray  felt  more  than  other 

10  men,  but  which  most  others,  perhaps  all  others,  feel  too. 
It  is  more  popular,  perhaps,  than  any  English  poem, 
because  that  sort  of  feeling  is  the  most  diffused  of  high 
feelings,  and  because  Gray  added  to  a  singular  nicety 
of  fancy  a  habitual  proneness  to  a  contemplative — a  dis- 

15  cerning  but  unbiassed — meditation  on  death  and  on  life. 
Other  poets  cannot  hope  for  such  success:  a  subject  so 
popular,  so  grave,  so  wise,  and  yet  so  suitable  to  the 
writer's  nature,  is  hardly  to  be  found.  But  the  same 
ideal,  the  same  unautobiographical  character  is  to  be 

20  found  in  the  writings  of  meaner  men.  Take  sonnets  of 
Hartley  Coleridge,  for  example: — 


TO  A  FRIEND 

"  When  we  were  idlers  with  the  loitering  rills, 
The  need  of  human  love  we  little  noted: 
25  Our  love  was  Nature;  and  the  peace  that  floated 

On  the  white  mist,  and  dwelt  upon  the  hills, 
To  sweet  accord  subdued  our  wayward  wills : 
One  soul  was  ours,  one  mind,  one  heart  devoted, 
That,  wisely  doating,  ask'd  not  why  it  doated, 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    29 1 

And  ours  the  unknown  joy,  which  knowing  kills. 

But  now  I  find,  how  dear  thou  wert  to  me; 

That  man  is  more  than  half  of  Nature's  treasure, 

Of  that  fair  Beauty  which  no  eye  can  see, 

Of  that  sweet  music  which  no  ear  can  measure ;  5 

And  now  the  streams  may  sing  for  others'  pleasure, 

The  hills  sleep  on  in  their  eternity." 

II 
TO  THE  SAME 

;'  In  the  great  city  we  are  met  again, 
Where  many  souls  there  are  that  breathe  and  die,  IO 

Scarce  knowing  more  of  Nature's  potency, 
Than  what  they  learned  from  heat,  or  cold,  or  rain, 
The  sad  vicissitude  of  weary  pain ; — 
For  busy  man  is  lord  of  ear  and  eye, 

And  what  hath  Nature,  but  the  vast  void  sky,  15 

And  the  thronged  river  toiling  to  the  main? 
Oh  1  say  not  so,  for  she  shall  have  her  part 
In  every  smile,  in  every  tear  that  falls, 
And  she  shall  hide  her  in  the  secret  heart, 

Where  love  persuades,  and  sterner  duty  calls :  20 

But  worse  it  were  than  death,  or  sorrow's  smart, 
To  live  without  a  friend  within  these  walls." 

Ill 

TO  THE   SAME 

"  We  parted  on  the  mountains,  as  two  streams 
From  one  clear  spring  pursue  their  several  ways ;  25 

And  thy  fleet  course  hath  been  through  many  a  maze 
In  foreign  lands,  where  silvery  Padus  gleams 
To  that  delicious  sky,  whose  glowing  beams 
Brightened  the  tresses  that  old  Poets  praise; 
Where  Petrarch's  patient  love  and  artful  lays,  30 


292  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

And  Ariosto's  song  of  many  themes, 
Moved  the  soft  air.     But  I,  a  lazy  brook, 
As  close  pent  up  within  my  native  dell, 
Have  crept  along  from  nook  to  shady  nook, 
5  Where  flow'rets  blow,  and  whispering  Naiads  dwell. 

Yet  now  we  meet,  that  parted  were  so  wide, 
O'er  rough  and  smooth  to  travel  side  by  side." 

The  contrast  of  instructive  and  enviable  locomotion 
with  refining  but  instructive  meditation  is  not  special  and 

10  peculiar  to  these  two,  but  general  and  universal.  It  was 
set  down  by  Hartley  Coleridge  because  he  was  the  most 
meditative  and  refining  of  men. 

What  sort  of  literatesque  types  are  fit  to  be  described 
in  the  sort  of  literature  called  poetry,  is  a  matter  on  which 

15  much  might  be  written.  Mr.  Arnold,  some  years  since, 
put  forth  a  theory  that  the  art  of  poetry  could  only  deline- 
ate great  actions.  But  though,  rightly  interpreted  and 
understood — using  the  word  action  so  as  to  include  high 
and  sound  activity  in  contemplation — this  definition  may 

20  suit  the  highest  poetry,  it  certainly  cannot  be  stretched  to 
include  many  inferior  sorts  and  even  many  good  sorts. 
Nobody  in  their  senses  would  describe  Gray's  Elegy 
as  the  delineation  of  a  "great  action";  some  kinds  of 
mental  contemplation  may  be  energetic  enough  to  de- 

25  serve  this  name,  but  Gray  would  have  been  frightened  at 
the  very  word.  He  loved  scholarlike  calm  and  quiet  in- 
action; his  very  greatness  depended  on  his  not  acting,  on 
his  "  wise  passiveness,"  on  his  indulging  the  grave  idle- 
ness which  so  well  appreciates  so  much  of  human  life. 

3°  [Bagehot  here  quotes  from  Arnold's  Empedocles\ 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    293 

We  are  disposed  to  believe  that  no  very  sharp  defini- 
tion can  be  given — at  least  in  the  present  state  of  the 
critical  art — of  the  boundary  line  between  poetry  and 
other  sorts  of  imaginative  delineation.  Between  the 
undoubted  dominions  of  the  two  kinds  there  is  a  de-  5 
batable  land;  everybody  is  agreed  that  the  GLdipus 
at  Colonics  is  poetry:  every  one  is  agreed  that  the  won- 
derful appearance  of  Mrs.  Veal  is  not  poetry.  But  the 
exact  line  which  separates  grave  novels  in  verse,  like 
Aylmer's  Field  or  Enoch  Arden,  from  grave  novels  not  10 
in  verse,  like  Silas  Marner  or  Adam  Bede,  we  own 
we  cannot  draw  with  any  confidence.  Nor,  perhaps, 
is  it  very  important;  whether  a  narrative  is  thrown 
into  verse  or  not  certainly  depends  in  part  on  the  taste 
of  the  age,  and  in  part  on  its  mechanical  helps.  Verse  15 
is  the  only  mechanical  help  to  the  memory  in  rude 
times,  and  there  is  little  writing  till  a  cheap  something 
is  found  to  write  upon,  and  a  cheap  something  to  write 
with.  Poetry — verse,  at  least — is  the  literature  of  all 
work  in  early  ages;  it  is  only  later  ages  which  write  in  20 
what  they  think  a  natural  and  simple  prose.  There 
are  other  casual  influences  in  the  matter  too;  but  they 
are  not  material  now.  We  need  only  say  here  that 
poetry,  because  it  has  a  more  marked  rhythm  than  prose, 
must  be  more  intense  in  meaning  and  more  concise  in  25 
style  than  prose.  People  expect  a  "marked  rhythm" 
to  imply  something  worth  marking;  if  it  fails  to  do  so 
they  are  disappointed.  They  are  displeased  at  the 
visible  waste  of  a  powerful  instrument;  they  call  it 
"doggerel,"  and  rightly  call  it,  for  the  metrical  expres-  30 


2Q4  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

sion  of  full  thought  and  eager  feeling — the  burst  of 
meter — incident  to  high  imagination,  should  not  be 
wasted  on  petty  matters  which  prose  does  as  well— 
which  it  does  better— which  it  suits  by  its  very  limp- 
5  ness  and  weakness,  whose  small  changes  it  follows  more 
easily,  and  to  whose  lowest  details  it  can  fully  and  with- 
out effort  degrade  itself.  Verse,  too,  should  be  more 
concise,  for  long-continued  rhythm  tends  to  jade  the 
mind,  just  as  brief  rhythm  tends  to  attract  the  atten- 

10  tion.  Poetry  should  be  memorable  and  emphatic,  in- 
tense, and  soon  over. 

The  great  divisions  of  poetry,  and  of  all  other  literary 
art,  arise  from  the  different  modes  in  which  these  types — 
these  characteristic  men,  these  characteristic  feelings — 

15  may  be  variously  described.  There  are  three  principal 
modes  which  we  shall  attempt  to  describe — the  pure, 
which  is  sometimes,  but  not  very  wisely,  called  the  clas- 
sical: the  ornate,  which  is  also  unwisely  called  romantic; 
and  the  grotesque,  which  might  be  called  the  mediaeval. 

20  We  will  describe  the  nature  of  these  a  little.  Criticism, 
we  know,  must  be  brief — not,  like  poetry,  because  its 
charm  is  too  intense  to  be  sustained — but,  on  the  con- 
trary, because  its  interest  is  too  weak  to  be  prolonged; 
but  elementary  criticism,  if  an  evil,  is  a  necessary  evil; 

25  a  little  while  spent  among  the  simple  principles  of  art 

is   the   first    condition,   the   absolute    prerequisite,   for 

surely  apprehending  and  wisely  judging  the  complete 

embodiments  and  miscellaneous  forms  of  actual  literature. 

The  definition  of  pure  literature  is,  that  it  describes 

30  the   type  in  its   simplicity — we   mean,   with  the  exact 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    295 

amount  of  accessory  circumstance  which  is  necessary 
to  bring  it  before  the  mind  in  finished  perfection,  and 
no  more  than  that  amount.  The  type  needs  some  acces- 
sories from  its  nature — a  picturesque  landscape  does 
not  consist  wholly  of  picturesque  features.  There  is  a  5 
setting  of  surroundings — as  the  Americans  would  say, 
of  fixings — without  which  the  reality  is  not  itself.  By 
a  traditional  mode  of  speech,  as  soon  as  we  see  a  picture 
in  which  a  complete  effect  is  produced  by  detail  so  rare 
and  so  harmonized  as  to  escape  us,  wTe  say,  How  "clas-  10 
sical"!  The  whole  which  is  to  be  seen  appears  at  once 
and  through  the  detail,  but  the  detail  itself  is  not  seen: 
we  do  not  think  of  that  which  gives  us  the  idea;  we  are 
absorbed  in  the  idea  itself.  Just  so  in  literature,  the 
pure  art  is  that  which  works  with  the  fewest  strokes;  15 
the  fewest,  that  is,  for  its  purpose,  for  its  aim  is  to  call 
up  and  bring  home  to  men  an  idea,  a  form,  a  character, 
and  if  that  idea  be  twisted,  that  form  be  involved,  that 
character  perplexed,  many  strokes  of  literary  art  will 
be  needful.  Pure  art  does  not  mutilate  its  object;  it  rep-  20 
resents  it  as  fully  as  is  possible  with  the  slightest  effort 
which  is  possible:  it  shrinks  from  no  needful  circum- 
stances, as  little  as  it  inserts  any  which  are  needless. 
The  precise  peculiarity  is  not  merely  that  no  incidental 
circumstance  is  inserted  which  does  not  tell  on  the  25 
main  design — no  art  is  fit  to  be  called  art  which  per- 
mits a  stroke  to  be  put  in  without  an  object — but  that 
only  the  minimum  of  such  circumstance  is  inserted  at 
all.  The  form  is  sometimes  said  to  be  bare,  the  acces- 
sories are  sometimes  said  to  be  invisible,  because  the  30 


296  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

appendages  are  so  choice  that  the  shape  only  is  per- 
ceived. 

The  English  literature  undoubtedly  contains  much 
impure  literature — impure  in  its  style,  if  not  in  its  mean- 
5  ing — but  it  also  contains  one  great,  one  nearly  perfect, 
model  of  the  pure  style  in  the  literary  expression  of 
typical  sentiment;  and  one  not  perfect,  but  gigantic  and 
close  approximation  to  perfection  in  the  pure  delin- 
eation  of   objective  character.     Wordsworth,   perhaps, 

10  comes  as  near  to  choice  purity  of  style  in  sentiment  as 

is  possible;  Milton,  with  exceptions  and  conditions  to 

be  explained,  approaches  perfection  by  the    strenuous 

purity  with  which  he  depicts  character. 

A  wit  once  said,  that  "  pretty  women  had  more  fea- 

15  tures  than  beautiful  women,"  and  though  the  expres- 
sion may  be  criticised,  the  meaning  is  correct.  Pretty 
women  seem  to  have  a  great  number  of  attractive  points, 
each  of  which  attracts  your  attention,  and  each  one  of 
which  you  remember  afterwards;  yet  these  points  have 

20  not  grown  together,  their  features  have  not  linked 
themselves  into  a  single  inseparable  whole.  But  a  beau- 
tiful woman  is  a  whole  as  she  is;  you  no  more  take  her 
to  pieces  than  a  Greek  statue;  she  is  not  an  aggregate 
of  divisible  charms,   she  is  a  charm  in  herself.     Such 

25  ever  is  the  dividing  test  of  pure  art;  if  you  catch  your- 
self admiring  its  details,  it  is  defective;  you  ought  to 
think  of  it  as  a  single  whole  which  you  must  remem- 
ber, which  you  must  admire,  which  somehow  subdues 
you  while  you  admire   it,  which   is  a  "possession"  to 

30  you  "forever." 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    297 

Of  course,  no  individual  poem  embodies  this  ideal 
perfectly;  of  course,  every  human  word  and  phrase  has 
its  imperfections,  and  if  we  choose  an  instance  to  illus- 
trate that  ideal,  the  instance  has  scarcely  a  fair  chance. 
By  contrasting  it  with  the  ideal,  we  suggest  its  im-  5 
perfections;  by  protruding  it  as  an  example,  we  turn  on 
its  defectiveness  the  microscope  of  criticism.  Yet  these 
two  sonnets  of  Wordsworth  may  be  fitly  read  in  this 
place,  not  because  they  are  quite  without  faults,  or  be- 
cause they  are  the  very  best  examples  of  their  kind  of  10 
style,  but  because  they  are  luminous  examples;  the  com- 
pactness of  the  sonnet  and  the  gravity  of  the  sentiment, 
hedging  in  the  thoughts,  restraining  the  fancy,  and 
helping  to  maintain  a  singleness  of  expression. 


THE  TROSSACHS  IS 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  pass, 

But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  one 

Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 

That  life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 

Withered  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase  20 

That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 

Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 

Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 

Untouched,  unbreathed  upon.     Thrice  happy  quest, 

If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray  25 

(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 

The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 

That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay 

Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest  !  " 


298  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

COMPOSED   UPON    WESTMINISTER   BRIDGE,    SEPT.   3,    l802 

"  Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
5  This  city  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theaters,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky ; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

IO  Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  1 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !     The  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 

15  And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still !  " 

Instances  of  barer  style  than  this  may  easily  be  found, 
instances  of  colder  style — few  better  instances  of  purer 
style.  Not  a  single  expression  (the  invocation  in  the 
concluding  couplet  of  the  second  sonnet  perhaps  ex- 
20  cepted)  can  be  spared,  yet  not  a  single  expression  rivets 
the  attention.    If,  indeed,  we  take  out  the  phrase — 

"  The  city  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning," 

and  the  description  of  the  brilliant  yellow  of  autumn — 
25  "  October's  workmanship  to  rival  May," 

they  have  independent  value,  but  they  are  not  noticed 
in  the  sonnet  when  we  read  it  through;  they  fall  into 
place  there,  and  being  in  their  place,  are  not  seen.     The 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    299 

great  subjects  of  the  two  sonnets,  the  religious  aspect 
of  beautiful  but  grave  Nature — the  religious  aspect  of 
a  city  about  to  awaken  and  be  alive,  are  the  only  ideas 
left  in  our  mind.  To  Wordsworth  has  been  vouch- 
safed the  last  grace  of  the  self-denying  artist;  you  think  5 
neither  of  him  nor  his  style,  but  you  cannot  help  think- 
ing of — you  must  recall — the  exact  phrase,  the  very  sen- 
timent he  wished. 

Milton's  purity  is  more  eager.  In  the  most  exciting 
parts  of  Wordsworth — and  these  sonnets  are  not  very  10 
exciting — you  always  feel,  you  never  forget,  that  what 
you  have  before  you  is  the  excitement  of  a  recluse. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  stir  of  life;  nothing  of  the  brawl 
of  the  world.  But  Milton,  though  always  a  scholar 
by  trade,  though  solitary  in  old  age,  was  through  life  15 
intent  on  great  affairs,  lived  close  to  great  scenes, 
watched  a  revolution,  and  if  not  an  actor  in  it,  was  at 
least  secretary  to  the  actors.  He  was  familiar—  by  daily 
experience  and  habitual  sympathy- — with  the  earnest 
debate  of  arduous  questions,  on  which  the  life  and  20 
death  of  the  speakers  certainly  depended,  on  which  the 
weal  or  woe  of  the  country  perhaps  depended.  He 
knew  how  profoundly  the  individual  character  of  the 
speakers — their  inner  and  real  nature — modifies  their 
opinion  on  such  questions;  he  knew  how  surely  that  na-  25 
ture  will  appear  in  the  expression  of  them.  This  great 
experience,  fashioned  by  a  fine  imagination,  gives  to  the 
debate  of  the  Satanic  Council  in  Pandemonium  its  real- 
ity and  its  life.  It  is  a  debate  in  the  Long  Parliament, 
and  though  the  theme  of  Paradise  Lost  obliged  Milton  30 


300  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

to  side  with  the  monarchical  element  in  the  universe, 
his  old  habits  are  often  too  much  for  him;  and  his  real 
sympathy— the  impetus  and  energy  of  his  nature — 
side  with  the  rebellious  element.  For  the  purposes  of 
5  art  this  is  much  better.  Of  a  court,  a  poet  can  make 
but  little;  of  a  heaven,  he  can  make  very  little;  but  of  a 
courtly  heaven,  such  as  Milton  conceived,  he  can  make 
nothing  at  all.  The  idea  of  a  court  and  the  idea  of  a 
heaven  are  so  radically  different,  that  a  distinct  com- 

io  bination  of  them  is  always  grotesque  and  often  ludicrous. 
Paradise  Lost,  as  a  whole,  is  radically  tainted  by  a  vi- 
cious principle.  It  professes  to  justify  the  ways  of  God 
to  man,  to  account  for  sin  and  death,  and  it  tells  you 
that  the  whole  originated  in  a  political  event;  in  a  court 

15  squabble  as  to  a  particular  act  of  patronage  and  the  due 
or  undue  promotion  of  an  eldest  son.  Satan  may  have 
been  wrong,  but  on  Milton's  theory  he  had  an  arguable 
case  at  least.  There  was  something  arbitrary  in  the 
promotion;  there  were  little  symptoms  of  a  job;  in  Par- 

20  adise  Lost  it  is  always  clear  that  the  devils  are  the 
weaker,  but  it  is  never  clear  that  the  angels  are  the  better. 
Milton's  sympathy  and  his  imagination  slip  back  to 
the  Puritan  rebels  whom  he  loved,  and  desert  the  courtly 
angels  whom  he  could  not  love,  although  he  praised 

25  them.  There  is  no  wonder  that  Milton's  hell  is  better 
than  his  heaven,  for  he  hated  officials  and  he  loved 
rebels, — he  employs  his  genius  below,  and  accumu- 
lates his  pedantry  above.  On  the  great  debate  in  Pan- 
demonium all  his  genius  is  concentrated.     The  question 

30  is  very  practical;  it  is,  "What  are  we  devils  to  do,  now 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    301 

we  have  lost  heaven?"     Satan,  who  presides  over  and 
manipulates  the  assembly;  Moloch, 

"  The  fiercest  spirit 
That  fought  in  Heaven,  now  fiercer  by  despair," 

who  wants  to  fight  again;  Belial,  "  the  man  of  the  world,"    5 
who  does  not  want  to  fight  any  more;  Mammon,  who  is 
for  commencing  an  industrial  career;   Beelzebub,   the 
official  statesman, 

"  Deep  on  his  front  engraven, 
Deliberation  sat  and  Public  care,"  10 

who,  at  Satan's  instance,  proposes  the  invasion  of  earth, 
—are  as  distinct  as  so  many  statues.  Even  Belial,  "the 
man  of  the  world,"  the  sort  of  man  with  whom  Milton 
had  least  sympathy,  is  perfectly  painted.  An  inferior 
artist  would  have  made  the  actor  who  "counseled  ig-  15 
noble  ease  and  peaceful  sloth,"  a  degraded  and  ugly 
creature;  but  Milton  knew  better.  He  knew  that  low 
notions  require  a  better  garb  than  high  notions.  Human 
nature  is  not  a  high  thing,  but  at  least  it  has  a  high  idea 
of  itself;  it  will  not  accept  mean  maxims,  unless  they  20 
are  gilded  and  made  beautiful.  A  prophet  in  goatskin 
may  cry,  "Repent,  repent,"  but  it  takes  "purple  and 
fine  linen"  to  be  able  to  say,  "Continue  in  your  sins." 
The  world  vanquishes  with  its  speciousness  and  its 
show,  and  the  orator  who  is  to  persuade  men  to  25 
worldliness  must  have  a  share  in  them.  Milton  well 
knew  this;  after  the  warlike  speech  of  the  fierce  Mo- 


302  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

loch,  he   introduces  a   brighter   and  a   more  graceful 
spirit. 

"  He  ended  frowning,  and  his  look  denounced 
Desp'rate  revenge,  and  battle  dangerous 
5  To  less  than  Gods.     On  th'  other  side  up  rose 

Belial,  in  act  more  graceful  and  humane  : 
A  fairer  person  lost  not  Heaven  ;  he  seem'd 
For  dignity  composed  and  high  exploit : 
But  all  was  false  and  hollow,  though  his  tongue 

10  Drop  manna,  and  could  make  the  worse  appear 

The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest  counsels ;  for  his  thoughts  were  low  , 
To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Tim'rous  and  slothful :  yet  he  pleased  the  ear, 

15  And  with  persuasive  accent  thus  began  :  " 

He  does  not  begin  like  a  man  with  a  strong  case,  but 
like  a  man  with  a  weak  case;  he  knows  that  the  pride  of 
human  nature  is  irritated  by  mean  advice,  and  though 
he  may  probably  persuade  men  to  take  it,  he  must  care- 
20  fully  apologise  for  giving  it.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  though 
the  formal  address  is  to  devils,  the  real  address  is  to 
men:  to  the  human  nature  which  we  know,  not  to  the 
fictitious  diabolic  nature  we  do  not  know. 

"  I  should  be  much  for  open  war,  O  Peers, 
25  As  not  behind  in  hate,  if  what  was  urged 

Main  reason  to  persuade  immediate  war, 
Did  not  dissuade  me  most,  and  seem  to  cast 
Ominous  conjecture  on  the  whole  success: 
When  he  who  most  excels  in  fact  of  arms, 
30  In  what  he  counsels,  and  in  what  excels 

Mistrustful,  grounds  his  courage  on  despair, 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    303 

And  utter  dissolution,  as  the  scope 

Of  all  his  aim,  after  some  dire  revenge. 

First,  what  revenge  ?     The  tow'rs  of  Heav'n  are  fill'd 

With  armed  watch,  that  render  all  access 

Impregnable  ;  oft  on  the  bord'ring  deep  5 

Encamp  their  legions,  or  with  obscure  wing 

Scout  far  and  wide  into  the  realm  of  night, 

Scorning  surprise.     Or  could  we  break  our  way 

By  force,  and  at  our  heels  all  Hell  should  rise 

With  blackest  insurrection,  to  confound  10 

Heav'n's  purest  light,  yet  our  Great  Enemy 

All  incorruptible,  would  on  His  throne 

Sit  unpolluted,  and  th'  ethereal  mold 

Incapable  of  stain  would  soon  expel 

Her  mischief,  and  purge  off  the  baser  fire  1 5 

Victorious.     Thus  repulsed,  our  final  hope 

Is  flat  despair.     We  must  exasperate 

Th'  Almighty  Victor  to  spend  all  His  rage, 

And  that  must  end  us:  that  must  be  our  cure, 

To  be  no  more  ?     Sad  cure ;  for  who  would  lose,  20 

Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 

Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity, 

To  perish  rather,  swallow'd  up  and  lost 

In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  night, 

Devoid  of  sense  and  motion  ?     And  who  knows,  25 

Let  this  be  good,  whether  our  angry  Foe 

Can  give  it,  or  will  ever  ?     How  He  can 

Is  doubtful ;  that  He  never  will  is  sure. 

Will  He,  so  wise,  let  loose  at  once  His  ire 

Belike  through  impotence,  or  unaware,  30 

To  give  His  enemies  their  wish,  and  end 

Them  in  His  anger,  whom  His  anger  saves 

To  punish  endless  ?     Wherefore  cease  we  then  ? 

Say  they  who  counsel  war,  we  are  decreed, 

Reserved,  and  destined,  to  eternal  woe ;  35 

Whatever  doing,  what  can  we  suffer  more, 


304  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

What  can  we  suffer  worse  ?     Is  this  then  worst, 
Thus  sitting,  thus  consulting,  thus  in  arms?  " 


And  so  on. 

Mr.  Pitt  knew  this  speech  by  heart,  and  Lord  Macau- 
5  lay  has  called  it  incomparable;  and  these  judges  of  the 
oratorical  art  have  well  decided.  A  mean  foreign  policy 
cannot  be  better  defended.  Its  sensibleness  is  effectually 
explained,  and  its  tameness  as  much  as  possible  dis- 
guised. 

10  But  we  have  not  here  to  do  with  the  excellence  of 
Belial's  policy,  but  with  the  excellence  of  his  speech;  and 
with  that  speech  in  a  peculiar  manner.  This  speech, 
taken  with  the  few  lines  of  description  with  which  Mil- 
ton introduces  it,  embodies,  in  as  short  a  space  as  pos- 

15  sible,  with  as  much  perfection  as  possible,  the  delineation 
of  the  type  of  character  common  at  all  times,  dangerous 
in  many  times;  sure  to  come  to  the  surface  in  moments  of 
difficulty,  and  never  more  dangerous  than  then.  As 
Milton  describes  it,  it  is  one  among  several  typical  char- 

20  acters  which  will  ever  have  their  place  in  great  councils, 
which  will  ever  be  heard  at  important  decisions,  which 
are  part  of  the  characteristic  and  inalienable  whole  of 
this  statesmanlike  world.  The  debate  in  Pandemonium 
is  a  debate  among  these  typical  characters  at  the  great- 

25  est  conceivable  crisis,  and  with  adjuncts  of  solemnity 
which  no  other  situation  could  rival.  It  is  the  greatest 
classical  triumph,  the  highest  achievement  of  the  pure 
style  in  English  literature;  it  is  the  greatest  description 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    305 

of  the  highest  and  most  typical  characters  with  the  most 
choice  circumstances  and  in  the  fewest  words. 

It  is  not  unremarkable  that  we  should  find  in  Milton 
and  in  Paradise  Lost  the  best  specimen  of  pure  style. 
Milton  was  a  schoolmaster  in  a  pedantic  age,  and  there  is    5 
nothing  so  unclassical — nothing  so  impure  in  style — as 
pedantry.    The  out-of-door  conversational  life  of  Athens 
was  as  opposed  to  bookish  scholasticism  as  a  life  can  be. 
The  most  perfect  books  have  been  written  not  by  those 
who  thought  much  of  books,  but  by  those  who  thought  10 
little,  by  those  who  were  under  the  restraint  of  a  sensi- 
tive talking  world,  to  which  books  had  contributed  some- 
thing, and  a  various,  eager  life  the  rest.    Milton  is  gen- 
erally  unclassical   in   spirit   where   he   is   learned,   and 
naturally,  because  the  purest  poets  do  not  overlay  their  15 
conceptions   with    book    knowledge,   and   the   classical 
poets,  having  in  comparison  no  books,  were  under  little 
temptation  to  impair  the  purity  of  their  style  by  the  ac- 
cumulation of  their  research.    Over  and  above  this,  there 
is  in  Milton,  and  a  little  in  Wordsworth  also,  one  defect  20 
which  is  in  the  highest  degree  faulty  and  unclassical, 
which  mars  the  effect  and  impairs  the  perfection  of  the 
pure  style.    There  is  a  want  of  spontaneity,  and  a  sense  of 
effort.    It  has  been  happily  said  that  Plato's  words  must 
have  grown  into  their  places.    No  one  would  say  so  of  25 
Milton  or  even  of  Wordsworth.    About  both  of  them 
there  is  a  taint  of  duty;  a  vicious  sense  of  the  good  man's 
task.     Things  seem  right  where  they  are,  but  they  seem 
to  be  put  where  they  are.     Flexibility  is  essential  to  the 
consummate  perfection  of  the  pure  style,  because  the  sen-  30 
Prose — 20 


306  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

sation  of  the  poet's  efforts  carries  away  our  thoughts  from 
his  achievements.  We  are  admiring  his  labors  when  we 
should  be  enjoying  his  words.  But  this  is  a  defect  in 
those  two  writers,  not  a  defect  in  pure  art.  Of  course  it 
5  is  more  difficult  to  write  in  few  words  than  to  write  in 
many;  to  take  the  best  adjuncts,  and  those  only,  for  what 
you  have  to  say,  instead  of  using  all  which  comes  to  hand: 
it  is  an  additional  labor  if  you  write  verses  in  a  morning, 
to  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  in  choosing,  that  is,  in  mak- 
10  ing  those  verses  fewer.  But  a  perfect  artist  in  the  pure 
style  is  as  effortless  and  as  natural  as  in  any  style,  perhaps 
is  more  so.    Take  the  well-known  lines: — 

"There  was  a  little  lawny  islet 
By  anemone  and  violet, 

15  Like  mosaic,  paven: 

And  its  roof  was  flowers  and  leaves 
Which  the  summer's  breath  enweaves, 
Where  nor  sun,  nor  showers,  nor  breeze, 
Pierce  the  pines  and  tallest  trees, 

20  Each  a  gem  engraven : 

Girt  by  many  an  azure  wave 
With  which  the  clouds  and  mountains  pave 
A  lake's  blue  chasm." 

Shelley  had  many  merits  and  many  defects.  This  is 
25  not  the  place  for  a  complete,  or  indeed  for  any,  estimate  of 
him.  But  one  excellence  is  most  evident.  His  words  are 
as  flexible  as  any  words;  the  rhythm  of  some  modulating 
air  seems  to  move  them  into  their  place  without  a  struggle 
by  the  poet,  and  almost  without  his  knowledge.  This  is 
30  the  perfection  of  pure  art,  to  embody  typical  conceptions 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   307 

in  the  choicest,  the  fewest  accidents,  to  embody  them 
so  that  each  of  these  accidents  may  produce  its  full  ef- 
fect, and  so  to  embody  them  without  effort. 

The  extreme  opposite  to  this  pure  art  is  what  may  be 
called  ornate  art.  This  species  of  art  aims  also  at  giving  5 
a  delineation  of  the,  typical  idea  in  its  perfection  and  its 
fullness,  but  it  aims  at  so  doing  in  a  manner  most  differ- 
ent. It  wishes  to  surround  the  type  with  the  greatest 
number  of  circumstances  which  it  will  bear.  It  works 
not  by  choice  and  selection,  but  by  accumulation  and  10 
aggregation.  The  idea  is  not,  as  in  the  pure  style,  pre- 
sented with  the  least  clothing  which  it  will  endure,  but 
with  the  richest  and  most  involved  clothing  that  it  will 
admit. 

We  are  fortunate  in  not  having  to  hunt  out  of  past  15 
literature  an  illustrative  specimen  of  the  ornate  style. 
Mr.  Tennyson  has  just  given  one  admirable  in  itself,  and 
most  characteristic  of  the  defects  and  the  merits  of  this 
style.  The  story  of  Enoch  Arden,  as  he  has  enhanced  and 
presented  it,  is  a  rich  and  splendid  composite  of  imagery  20 
and  illustration.  Yet  how  simple  that  story  is  in  itself! 
A  sailor  who  sells  fish,  breaks  his  leg,  gets  dismal,  gives  up 
selling  fish,  goes  to  sea,  is  wrecked  on  a  desert  island,  stays 
there  some  years,  on  his  return  finds  his  wife  married  to  a 
miller,  speaks  to  a  landlady  on  the  subject,  and  dies.  25 
Told  in  the  pure  and  simple,  the  unadorned  and  classical 
style,  this  story  would  not  have  taken  three  pages,  but  Mr. 
Tennyson  has  been  able  to  make  it  the  principal — the 
largest  tale  in  his  new  volume.  He  has  done  so  only  by 
giving  to  every  eveni  and  incident  in  the  volume  an  ac-  30 


308  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

companying  commentary.  He  tells  a  great  deal  about 
the  torrid  zone,  which  a  rough  sailor  like  Enoch  Arden 
certainly  would  not  have  perceived;  and  he  gives  to  the 
fishing  village,  to  which  all  the  characters  belong,  a  soft- 
5  ness  and  a  fascination  which  such  villages  scarcely  pos- 
sess in  reality. 

The  description  of  the  tropical  island  on  which  the 
sailor  is  thrown,  is  an  absolute  model  of  adorned  art: — 

"The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 

IO  And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heaven, 

The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 
The  luster  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 

IS  Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 

And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world, 
All  these  he  saw  ;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face, 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 

20  The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 

The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branch'd 
And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 

25  As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward- gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail : 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

30  Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east  ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING     7,°9 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  Heaven, 
The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise — but  no  sail." 

No  expressive  circumstances  can  be  added  to  this  de- 
scription, no  enhancing  detail  suggested.     A  much  less    5 
happy  instance  is  the  description  of  Enoch's  life  before 
he  sailed: — ■ 

"  While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward  ;  for  in  truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean  spoil  10 

In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  winter  gales, 
Not  only  to  the  market  cross  were  known, 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down, 
Far  as  the  portal- war  ding  lion  whelp,  ie 

And  peacock  yew  tree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering." 

So  much  has  not  often  been  made  of  selling  fish.  The 
essence  of  ornate  art  is  in  this  manner  to  accumulate 
round  the  typical  object,  everything  which  can  be  said  20 
about  it,  every  associated  thought  that  can  be  connected 
with  it,  without  impairing  the  essence  of  the  delineation. 
The  first  defect  which  strikes  a  student  of  ornate  art — 
the  first  which  arrests  the  mere  reader  of  it — is  what  is 
called  a  want  of  simplicity.  Nothing  is  described  as  it  is;  25 
everything  has  about  it  an  atmosphere  of  something  else. 
The  combined  and  associated  thoughts,  though  they  set 
off  and  heighten  particular  ideas  and  aspects  of  the  central 
and  typical  conception,  yet  complicate  it:  a  simple  thing — 
"a  primrose  by  the  river's  brim" — is  never  left  by  itself,  30 


3IO  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

something  else  is  put  with  it;  something  not  more  con- 
nected with  it  than  the  "lion  whelp"  and  the  "peacock 
yew  tree"  are  with  the  "fresh  fish  for  sale"  that  Enoch 
carries  past  them.    Even  in  the  highest  cases,  ornate  art 

5  leaves  upon  a  cultured  and  delicate  taste,  the  conviction 
that  it  is  not  the  highest  art,  that  it  is  somehow  exces- 
sive and  over-rich,  that  it  is  not  chaste  in  itself  or  chas- 
tening to  the  mind  that  sees  it — that  it  is  in  an  unexplained 
manner  unsatisfactory,  "a  thing  in  which  we  feel  there  is 

10  some  hidden  want!" 

That  want  is  a  want  of  "definition."  We  must  all 
know  landscapes,  river  landscapes  especially,  which  are  in 
the  highest  sense  beautiful,  which  when  we  first  see  them 
give  us  a  delicate  pleasure;  which  in  some — and  these  the 

15  best  cases — give  even  a  gentle  sense  of  surprise  that  such 
things  should  be  so  beautiful,  and  yet  when  we  come  to 
live  in  them,  to  spend  even  a  few  hours  in  them,  we 
seem  stifled  and  oppressed.  On  the  other  hand  there  are 
people  to  whom  the  seashore  is  a  companion,  an  exhilara- 

20  tion;  and  not  so  much  for  the  brawl  of  the  shore  as  for 
the  limited  vastness,  the  finite  infinite  of  the  ocean  as  they 
see  it.  Such  people  often  come  home  braced  and  nerved, 
and  if  they  spoke  out  the  truth,  would  have  only  to  say, 
"  We  have  seen  the  horizon  line; "  if  they  were  let  alone  in- 

25  deed,  they  would  gaze  on  it  hour  after  hour,  so  great  to 
them  is  the  fascination,  so  full  the  sustaining  calm,  which 
they  gain  from  that  union  of  form  and  greatness.  To  a 
very  inferior  extent,  but  still,  perhaps,  to  an  extent  which 
most  people  understand  better,  a  common  arch  will  have 

30  the  same  effect.    A  bridge  completes  a  river  landscape;  if 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   311 

of  the  old  and  many-arched  sort,  it  regulates  by  a  long 
series  of  defined  forms  the  vague  outline  of  wood  and 
river,  which  before  had  nothing  to  measure  it;  if  of  the 
new  scientific  sort,  it  introduces  still  more  strictly  a  geo- 
metrical element;  it  stiffens  the  scenery  which  was  before  5 
too  soft,  too  delicate,  too  vegetable.  Just  such  is  the  ef- 
fect of  pure  style  in  literary  art.  It  calms  by  conciseness; 
while  the  ornate  style  leaves  on  the  mind  a  mist  of  beauty, 
an  excess  of  fascination,  a  complication  of  charm,  the 
pure  style  leaves  behind  it  the  simple,  defined,  measured  10 
idea,  as  it  is,  and  by  itself.  That  which  is  chaste  chas- 
tens; there  is  a  poised  energy — a  state  half  thrill,  half 
tranquillity — which  pure  art  gives,  which  no  other  can 
give;  a  pleasure  justified  as  well  as  felt;  an  ennobled  sat- 
isfaction at  what  ought  to  satisfy  us,  and  must  ennoble  15 
us. 

Ornate  art  is  to  pure  art  what  a  painted  statue  is  to  an 
unpainted.  It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  a  touch  of  color 
does  bring  out  certain  parts;  does  convey  certain  expres- 
sions; does  heighten  certain  features,  but  it  leaves  on  the  20 
work  as  a  whole,  a  want,  as  we  say,  "  of  something;  "  a 
want  of  that  inseparable  chasteness  which  clings  to  simple 
sculpture,  an  impairing  predominance  of  alluring  details 
which  impairs  our  satisfaction  with  our  own  satisfaction; 
which  makes  us  doubt  whether  a  higher  being  than  our-  25 
selves  will  be  satisfied  even  though  we  are  so.  In  the  very 
same  manner,  though  the  rouge  of  ornate  literature  excites 
our  eye,  it  also  impairs  our  confidence. 

Mr.  Arnold  has  justly  observed  that  this  self-justifying, 
self-proving  purity  of  style  is  commoner  in  ancient  litera-  30 


312  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

ture  than  in  modern  literature,  and  also  that  Shakespeare 
is  not  a  great  or  an  unmixed  example  of  it.  No  one  can 
say  that  he  is.  His  works  are  full  of  undergrowth,  are 
full  of  complexity,  are  not  models  of  style;  except  by  a 
5  miracle,  nothing  in  the  Elizabethan  age  could  be  a  model 
of  style;  the  restraining  taste  of  that  age  was  feebler  and 
more  mistaken  than  that  of  any  other  equally  great  age. 
Shakespeare's  mind  so  teemed  with  creation  that  he  re- 
quired the  most  just,  most  forcible,  most  constant  re- 

io  straint  from  without.  He  most  needed  to  be  guided 
among  poets,  and  he  was  the  least  and  worst  guided.  As 
a  whole  no  one  can  call  his  works  finished  models  of  the 
pure  style,  or  of  any  style.  But  he  has  many  passages  of 
the  most  pure  style,  passages  which  could  be  easily  cited 

15  if  space  served.  And  we  must  remember  that  the  task 
which  Shakespeare  undertook  was  the  most  difficult 
which  any  poet  has  ever  attempted,  and  that  it  is  a  task  in 
which  after  a  million  efforts  every  other  poet  has  failed. 
The  Elizabethan  drama — as  Shakespeare  has  immortal- 

20  ized  it — undertakes  to  delineate  in  five  acts,  under  stage 
restrictions,  and  in  mere  dialogue,  a  whole  list  of  drama- 
tis persona,  a  set  of  characters  enough  for  a  modern 
novel,  and  with  the  distinctness  of  a  modern  novel. 
Shakespeare  is  not  content  to  give  two  or  three  great  char- 

25  acters  in  solitude  and  in  dignity,  like  the  classical  drama- 
tists; he  wishes  to  give  a  whole  party  of  characters  in  the 
play  of  life,  and  according  to  the  nature  of  each.  He 
would  "  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature,"  not  to  catch  a  mon- 
arch in  a  tragic  posture,  but  a  whole  group  of  characters 

30  engaged  in  many  actions,  intent  on  many  purposes,  think- 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   313 

ing  many  thoughts.    There  is  life  enough,  there  is  action 
enough,  in  single  plays  of  Shakespeare  to  set  up  an  ancient 
dramatist  for  a  long  career.    And  Shakespeare  succeeded. 
His  characters,  taken  en  masse,  and  as  a  whole,  are  as  well 
known  as  any  novelist's  characters;  cultivated  men  know    5 
all  about  them,  as  young  ladies  know  all  about  Mr.  Trol- 
lope's  novels.    But  no  other  dramatist  has  succeeded  in 
such  an  aim.    No  one  else's  characters  are  staple  people 
in  English  literature,  hereditary  people  whom  every  one 
knows  all  about  in  every  generation.    The  contempo-  10 
rary  dramatists,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson, 
Marlowe,  etc.,  had  many  merits,  some  of  them  were 
great  men.    But  a  critic  must  say  of  them  the  worst  thing 
he  has  to  say:  "  They  were  men  who  failed  in  their  charac- 
teristic aim;"  they  attempted  to  describe  numerous  sets  15 
of  complicated  characters,  and  they  failed.     No  one  of 
such  characters,  or  hardly  one,  lives  in  common  memory; 
the  Faustus  of  Marlowe,  a  really  great  idea,  is  not  remem- 
bered.    They  undertook  to  write  what  they  could  not 
write— five  acts  full  of  real  characters,  and  in  consequence,  20 
the  fine  individual  things  they  conceived  are  forgotten  by 
the  mixed  multitude,  and  known  only  to  a  few  of  the  few. 
Of  the  Spanish  theater  we  cannot  speak;  but  there  are  no 
such  characters  in  any  French  tragedy:  the  whole  aim  of 
that  tragedy  forbade  it.    Goethe  has  added  to  literature  a  25 
few  great  characters;  he  may  be  said  almost  to  have  added 
to  literature  the  idea  of  "intellectual  creation,"— the  idea 
of  describing  the  great  characters  through  the  intellect; 
but  he  has  not  added  to  the  common  stock  what  Shake- 
speare added,  a  new  multitude  of  men  and  women;  and  30 


314  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

these  not  in  simple  attitudes,  but  amid  the  most  complex 
parts  of  life,  with  all  their  various  natures  roused,  mixed, 
and  strained.  The  severest  art  must  have  allowed  many 
details,  much  overflowing  circumstance,  to  a  poet  who  un- 
5  dertook  to  describe  what  almost  defies  description.  Pure 
art  would  have  commanded  him  to  use  details  lavishly,  for 
only  by  a  multiplicity  of  such  could  the  required  effect  have 
been  at  all  produced.  Shakespeare  could  accomplish  it, 
for  his  mind  was  a  spring,  an  inexhaustible  fountain,  of 
io  human  nature,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  being  compelled 
by  the  task  of  his  time  to  let  the  fulness  of  his  nature  over- 
flow, he  sometimes  let  it  overflow  too  much,  and  covered 
with  erroneous  conceits  and  superfluous  images,  charac- 
ters and  conceptions  which  would  have  been  far  more 
15  justly,  far  more  effectually,  delineated  with  conciseness 
and  simplicity.  But  there  is  an  infinity  of  pure  art  in 
Shakespeare,  although  there  is  a  great  deal  else  also. 

It  will  be  said,  if  ornate  art  be,  as  you  say,  an  inferior 
species  of  art,  why  should  it  ever  be  used  ?    If  pure  art  be 
20  the  best  sort  of  art,  why  should  it  not  always  be  used  ? 

The  reason  is  this:  literary  art,  as  we  just  now  explained, 
is  concerned  with  literatesque  characters  in  literatesque 
situations;  and  the  best  art  is  concerned  with  the  most 
literatesque  characters  in  the  most  literatesque  situations. 
25  Such  are  the  subjects  of  pure  art;  it  embodies  with  the 
fewest  touches,  and  under  the  most  select  and  choice 
circumstances,  the  highest  conceptions;  but  it  does  not 
follow  that  only  the  best  subjects  are  to  be  treated  by  art, 
and  then  only  in  the  very  besUway.  Human  nature  could 
30  not  endure  such  a  critical  commandment  as  that,  and 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   315 

it  would  be  an  erroneous  criticism  which  gave  it.  Any 
literatesque  character  may  be  described  in  literature  un- 
der any  circumstances  which  exhibit  its  literatesqueness. 
The  essence  of  pure  art  consists  in  its  describing  what 
is  as  it  is,  and  this  is  very  well  for  what  can  bear  it,  but  5 
there  are  many  inferior  things  which  will  not  bear  it,  and 
which  nevertheless  ought  to  be  described  in  books.  A 
certain  kind  of  literature  deals  with  illusions,  and  this 
kind  of  literature  has  given  a  coloring  to  the  name 
romantic.  A  man  of  rare  genius,  and  even  of  poetical  10 
genius,  has  gone  so  far  as  to  make  these  illusions  the  true 
subject  of  poetry — almost  the  sole  subject. 

"  Without,"  says  Father  Newman,  of  one  of  his  characters, 
"  being  himself  a  poet,  he  was  in  the  season  of  poetry,  in  the  sweet 
springtime,  when  the  year  is  most  beautiful  because  it  is  new.  15 
Novelty  was  beauty  to  a  heart  so  open  and  cheerful  as  his ;  not 
only  because  it  was  novelty,  and  had  its  proper  charm  as  such,  but 
because  when  we  first  see  things,  we  see  them  in  a  gay  confusion, 
which  is  a  principal  element  of  the  poetical.  As  time  goes  on,  and 
we  number  and  sort  and  measure  things, — as  we  gain  views,  we  20 
advance  towards  philosophy  and  truth,  but  we  recede  from  poetry. 

"  When  we  ourselves  were  young,  we  once  on  a  time  walked, 
on  a  hot  summer  day,  from  Oxford  to  Newington — a  dull  road,  as 
any  one  who  has  gone  it  knows ;  yet  it  was  new  to  us ;  and  we 
protest  to  you,  reader,  believe  it  or  not,  laugh  or  not,  as  you  will,  25 
to  us  it  seemed  on  that  occasion  quite  touchingly  beautiful ;  and 
a  soft  melancholy  came  over  us,  of  which  the  shadows  fall  even 
now,  when  we  look  back  upon  that  dusty,  weary  journey.  And 
why  ?  because  every  object  which  met  us  was  unknown  and  full  of 
mystery.  A  tree  or  two  in  the  distance  seemed  the  beginning  of  a  30 
great  wood,  or  park,  stretching  endlessly;  a  hill  implied  a  vale  be- 
yond, with  that  vale's  history;  the  by-lanes,  with  their  green 
hedges,  wound  on  and  vanished,  yet  were  not  lost  to  the  imagina- 


316  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

tion.  Such  was  our  first  journey  ;  but  when  we  had  gone  it  sev 
eral  times,  the  mind  refused  to  act,  the  scene  ceased  to  enchant, 
stern  reality  alone  remained,  and  we  thought  it  one  of  the  most 
tiresome,  odious  roads  we  ever  had  occasion  to  traverse." 

5  That  is  to  say,  that  the  function  of  the  poet  is  to  in- 
troduce a  "gay  confusion,"  a  rich  medley  which  does  not 
exist  in  the  actual  world — which  perhaps  could  not  exist 
in  any  world — but  which  would  seem  pretty  if  it  did  exist. 
Every  one  who  reads  Enoch  Arden  will  perceive  that  this 

io  notion  of  all  poetry  is  exactly  applicable  to  this  one  poem. 
Whatever  be  made  of  Enoch's  "  Ocean  spoil  in  ocean- 
smelling  osier,"  of  the  "  portal- warding  lion  whelp,  and 
the  peacock  yew  tree,"  every  one  knows  that  in  himself 
Enoch  could  not  have  been  charming.     People  who  sell 

15  fish  about  the  country  (and  that  is  what  he  did,  though 
Mr.  Tennyson  won't  speak  out,  and  wraps  it  up)  never 
are  beautiful.  As  Enoch  was  and  must  be  coarse,  in  itself 
the  poem  must  depend  for  a  charm  on  a  "gay  confu- 
sion"— on  a  splendid  accumulation  of  impossible  acces- 

20  sories. 

Mr.  Tennyson  knows  this  better  than  any  of  us — he 
knows  the  country  world;  he  has  proved  that  no  one  living 
knows  it  better;  he  has  painted  with  pure  art — with  art 
which  describes  what  is  a  race  perhaps  more  refined,  more 

25  delicate,  more  conscientious,  than  the  sailor — the  North- 
ern Farmer,  and  we  all  know  what  a  splendid,  what  a  liv- 
ing thing,  he  has  made  of  it.  He  could,  if  he  only  would, 
have  given  us  the  ideal  sailor  in  like  manner — the  ideal  of 
the  natural  sailor  we  mean — the  characteristic  present 

30  man  as  he  lives  and  is.     But  this  he  has  not  chosen.     He 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   317 

has  endeavored  to  describe  an  exceptional  sailor,  at  an  ex- 
ceptionally refined  port,  performing  a  graceful  act,  an  act 
of  relinquishment.  And  with  this  task  before  him,  his  pro- 
found taste  taught  him  that  ornate  art  was  a  necessary 
medium — was  the  sole  effectual  instrument — for  his  pur-  5 
pose.  It  was  necessary  for  him  if  possible  to  abstract  the 
mind  from  reality,  to  induce  us  not  to  conceive  or  think  of 
sailors  as  they  are  while  we  are  reading  of  his  sailors,  but 
to  think  of  what  a  person  who  did  not  know,  might  fancy 
sailors  to  be.  A  casual  traveler  on  the  seashore,  with  the  10 
sensitive  mood  and  the  romantic  imagination  Dr.  New- 
man has  described,  might  fancy,  would  fancy,  a  seafaring 
village  to  be  like  that.  Accordingly,  Mr.  Tennyson  has 
made  it  his  aim  to  call  off  the  stress  of  fancy  from  real  life, 
to  occupy  it  otherwise,  to  bury  it  with  pretty  accessories;  15 
to  engage  it  on  the  "peacock  yew  tree,"  and  the  "portal- 
warding  lion  whelp."  Nothing,  too,  can  be  more  splendid 
than  the  description  of  the  tropics  as  Mr.  Tennyson  de- 
lineates them,  but  a  sailor  would  not  have  felt  the  tropics 
in  that  manner.  The  beauties  of  Nature  would  not  have  20 
so  much  occupied  him.  He  would  have  known  little  of 
the  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  and  nothing  of  the  long  con- 
volvuluses. As  in  Robinson  Crusoe,  his  own  petty  con- 
trivances and  his  small  ailments  would  have  been  the 
principal  subject  to  him.  "For  three  years,"  he  might  25 
have  said,  "  my  back  was  bad;  and  then  I  put  two  pegs 
into  a  piece  of  driftwood  and  so  made  a  chair;  and  after 
that  it  pleased  God  to  send  me  a  chill."  In  real  life  his 
piety  would  scarcely  have  gone  beyond  that. 

It  will  indeed  be  said,  that  though  the  sailor  had  no  30 


31 8  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

words  for,  and  even  no  explicit  consciousness  of,  the  splen- 
did details  of  the  torrid  zone,  yet  that  he  had,  notwith- 
standing, a  dim  latent  inexpressible  conception  of  them: 
though  he  could  not  speak  of  them  or  describe  them,  yet 
5  they  were  much  to  him.  And  doubtless  such  is  the  case. 
Rude  people  are  impressed  by  what  is  beautiful — deeply 
impressed — though  they  could  not  describe  what  they  see, 
or  what  they  feel.  But  what  is  absurd  in  Mr.  Tennyson's 
description — absurd  when  we  abstract  it  from  the  gor- 

io  geous  additions  and  ornaments  with  which  Mr.  Tennyson 
distracts  us — is,  that  his  hero  feels  nothing  else  but  these 
great  splendors.  We  hear  nothing  of  the  physical  ail- 
ments, the  rough  de-ices,  the  low  superstitions,  which 
really  would  have  been  the  first  things,  the  favorite  and 

15  principal  occupations  of  his  mind.  Just  so  when  he  gets 
home  he  may  have  had  such  fine  sentiments,  though  it  is 
odd,  and  he  may  have  spoken  of  them  to  his  landlady, 
though  that  is  odder  still,— but  it  is  incredible  that  his 
whole  mind  should  be  made  up  of  fine  sentiments.    Be- 

20  sides  those  sweet  feelings,  if  he  had  them,  there  must  have 
been  many  more  obvious,  more  prosaic,  and  some  perhaps 
more  healthy.  Mr.  Tennyson  has  shown  a  profound 
judgment  in  distracting  us  as  he  does.  He  has  given  us  a 
classic  delineation  of  the  Northern  Farmer  with  no  orna- 

25  ment  at  all — as  bare  a  thing  as  can  be — because  he  then 
wanted  to  describe  a  true  type  of  real  men;  he  has  given 
us  a  sailor  crowded  all  over  with  ornament  and  illustra- 
tion because  he  then  wanted  to  describe  an  unreal  type  of 
fancied  men, — not  sailors  as  they  are,  but  sailors  as  they 

30  might  be  wished. 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   319 

Another  prominent  element  in  Enoch  Arden  is  yet 
more  suitable  to,  yet  more  requires  the  aid  of,  ornate  art. 
Mr.  Tennyson  undertook  to  deal  with  half  belief.    The 
presentiments  which  Annie  feels  are  exactly  of  that  sort 
which  everybody   has  felt,   and  which  every  one   has    5 
half  believed — which  hardly  any  one  has  more  than  half 
believed.    Almost  every  one,  it  has  been  said,  would  be 
angry  if  any  one  else  reported  that  he  believed  in  ghosts; 
yet  hardly  any  one,  when  thinking  by  himself,  wholly 
disbelieves    them.     Just  so  such  presentiments  as  Mr.  10 
Tennyson  depicts,  impress  the  inner  mind  so  much  that 
the  outer  mind — the  rational  understanding — hardly  likes 
to  consider  them  nicely  or  to  discuss  them  skeptically.  For 
these  dubious  themes  an  ornate  or  complex  style  is  need- 
ful.   Classical  art  speaks  out  what  it  has  to  say  plainly  and  1 f, 
simply.    Pure  style  cannot  hesitate;  it  describes  in  con- 
cisest  outline  what  is,  as  it  is.    If  a  poet  really  believes  in 
presentiments  he  can  speak  out  in  pure  style.    One  who 
could  have  been  a  poet — one  of  the  few  in  any  age  of 
whom  one  can  say  certainly  that  they  could  have  been  20 
and  have  not  been — has  spoken  thus : — 

"  When  Heaven  sends  sorrow, 
Warnings  go  first, 
Lest  it  should  burst 

With  stunning  might  25 

On  souls  too  bright 

To  fear  the  morrow. 

"  Can  science  bear  us 

To  the  hid  springs 

Of  human  things?  ^C 


320  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSfi 

Why  may  not  dream, 
Or  thought's  day-gleam, 
Startle,  yet  cheer  us  ? 

•'  Are  such  thoughts  fetters, 
5  While  faith  disowns 

Dread  of  earth's  tones, 
Recks  but  Heaven's  call, 
And  on  the  wall, 

Reads  but  Heaven's  letters?  " 

10  But  if  a  poet  is  not  sure  whether  presentiments  are  true 
or  not  true;  if  he  wishes  to  leave  his  readers  in  doubt;  if  he 
wishes  an  atmosphere  of  indistinct  illusion  and  of  moving 
shadow,  he  must  use  the  romantic  style,  the  style  of  miscel- 
laneous adjunct,  the  style  "  which  shirks,  not  meets"  your 

15  intellect,  the  style  which,  as  you  are  scrutinizing,  disap- 
pears. 

Nor  is  this  all,  or  even  the  principal  lesson,  which  Enoch 
Arden  may  suggest  to  us,  of  the  use  of  ornate  art.  That 
art  is  the  appropriate  art  for  an  unpleasing  type.    Many  of 

20  the  characters  of  real  life,  if  brought  distinctly,  prom- 
inently, and  plainly  before  the  mind,  as  they  really  are,  if 
shown  in  their  inner  nature,  their  actual  essence,  are 
doubtless  very  unpleasant.  They  would  be  horrid  to  meet 
and  horrid  to  think  of.    We  fear  it  must  be  owned  that 

25  Enoch  Arden  is  this  kind  of  person.  A  dirty  sailor  who 
did  not  go  home  to  his  wife  is  not  an  agreeable  being:  a 
varnish  must  be  put  on  him  to  make  him  shine.  It  is  true 
that  he  acts  rightly;  that  he  is  very  good.  But  such  is 
human  nature  that  it  finds  a  little  tameness  in  mere  moral- 

30  ity.     Mere  virtue  belongs  to  a  charity-school  girl,  and  has 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   32 1 

a  taint  of  the  catechism.  All  of  us  feel  this,  though  most 
of  us  are  too  timid,  too  scrupulous,  too  anxious  about  the 
virtue  of  others  to  speak  out.  We  are  ashamed  of  our 
nature  in  this  respect,  but  it  is  not  the  less  our  nature. 
And  if  we  look  deeper  into  the  matter  there  are  many  rea-  5 
sons  why  we  should  not  be  ashamed  of  it.  The  soul  of 
man,  and,  as  we  necessarily  believe,  of  beings  greater  than 
man,  has  many  parts  besides  its  moral  part.  It  has  an 
intellectual  part,  an  artistic  part,  even  a  religious  part, 
in  which  mere  morals  have  no  share.  In  Shakespeare  or  10 
Goethe,  even  in  Newton  or  Archimedes,  there  is  much 
which  will  not  be  cut  down  to  the  shape  of  the  command- 
ments. They  have  thoughts,  feelings,  hopes — immortal 
thoughts  and  hopes — which  have  influenced  the  life  of 
men,  and  the  souls  of  men,  ever  since  their  age,  but  which  15 
the  "whole  duty  of  man  "  the  ethical  compendium, 
does  not  recognise.  Nothing  is  more  unpleasant  than  a 
virtuous  person  with  a  mean  mind.  A  highly  developed 
moral  nature  joined  to  an  undeveloped  intellectual  nature, 
an  undeveloped  artistic  nature,  and  a  very  limited  reli-  20 
gious  nature,  is  of  necessity  repulsive.  It  represents  a  bit 
of  human  nature— a  good  bit,  of  course— but  a  bit  only, 
in  disproportionate,  unnatural,  and  revolting  prominence; 
and  therefore,  unless  an  artist  use  delicate  care,  we  are 
offended.  The  dismal  act  of  a  squalid  man  needed  many  25 
condiments  to  make  it  pleasant,  and  therefore  Mr.  Tenny- 
son was  right  to  mix  them  subtly  and  to  use  them  freely. 
A  mere  act  of  self-denial  can  indeed  scarcely  be  pleasant 
upon  paper.  A  heroic  struggle  with  an  external  adversary, 
even  though  it  end  in  defeat,  may  easily  be  made  attrac-  30 
Prose — 21 


322  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

tive.  Human  nature  likes  to  see  itself  look  grand,  and  it 
looks  grand  when  it  is  making  a  brave  struggle  with  for- 
eign foes.  But  it  does  not  look  grand  when  it  is  divided 
against  itself.  An  excellent  person  striving  with  tempta- 
5  tion  is  a  very  admirable  being  in  reality,  but  he  is  not  a 
pleasant  being  in  description.  We  hope  he  will  win  and 
overcome  his  temptation;  but  we  feel  that  he  would  be  a 
more  interesting  being,  a  higher  being,  if  he  had  not  felt 
that  temptation  so  much.    The  poet  must  make  the  strug- 

10  gle  great  in  order  to  make  the  self-denial  virtuous,  and  if 
the  struggle  be  too  great,  we  are  apt  to  feel  some  mixture 
of  contempt.  The  internal  metaphysics  of  a  divided 
nature  are  but  an  inferior  subject  for  art,  and  if  they  are 
to  be  made  attractive,  much  else  must  be  combined  with 

15  them.  If  the  excellence  of  Hamlet  had  depended  on  the 
ethical  qualities  of  Hamlet,  it  would  not  have  been  the 
masterpiece  of  our  literature.  He  acts  virtuously  of 
course,  and  kills  the  people  he  ought  to  kill,  but  Shake- 
speare knew  that  such  goodness  would  not  much  interest 

20  the  pit.  He  made  him  a  handsome  prince  and  a  puzzling 
meditative  character;  these  secular  qualities  relieve  his 
moral  excellence,  and  so  he  becomes  "nice."  In  propor- 
tion as  an  artist  has  to  deal  with  types  essentially  imper- 
fect, he  must  disguise  their  imperfections;  he  must  accu- 

25  raulate  around  them  as  many  first-rate  accessories  as  may 
make  his  readers  forget  that  they  are  themselves  second- 
rate.  The  sudden  millionaires  of  the  present  day  hope  to 
disguise  their  social  defects  by  buying  old  places,  and  hid- 
ing among  aristocratic  furniture;  just  so  a  great  artist  who 

30  has  to  deal  with  characters  artistically  imperfect,  will  use 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   323 

an  ornate  style,  will  fit  them  into  a  scene  where  there  is 
much  else  to  look  at. 

For  these  reasons  ornate  art  is,  within  the  limits,  as  le- 
gitimate as  pure  art.    It  does  what  pure  art  could  not  do. 
The  very  excellence  of  pure  art  confines  its  employment.    5 
Precisely  because  it  gives  the  best  things  by  themselves 
and  exactly  as  they  are,  it  fails  when  it  is  necessary  to  de- 
scribe inferior  things  among  other  things,  with  a  list  of 
enhancements  and  a  crowd  of  accompaniments  that  in 
reality  do  not  belong  to  it.    Illusion,  half  belief,  unpleas-  10 
ant  types,  imperfect  types,  are  as  much  the  proper  sphere 
of  ornate  art,  as  an  inferior  landscape  is  the  proper  sphere 
for  the  true  efficacy  of  moonlight.     A  really  great  land- 
scape needs  sunlight  and  bears  sunlight;  but  moonlight  is 
an  equalizer  of  beauties;  it  gives  a  romantic  unreality  to  15 
what  will  not  stand  the  bare  truth.    And  just  so  does  ro- 
mantic art. 

There  is,  however,  a  third  kind  of  art  which  differs  from 
these  on  the  point  in  which  they  most  resemble  one  an- 
other. Ornate  art  and  pure  art  have  this  in  common,  that  20 
they  paint  the  types  of  literature  in  a  form  as  perfect  as 
they  can.  Ornate  art,  indeed,  uses  undue  disguises  and 
unreal  enhancements;  it  does  not  confine  itself  to  the  best 
types;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  its  office  to  make  the  best  of 
imperfect  types  and  lame  approximations;  but  ornate  art,  25 
as  much  as  pure  art,  catches  its  subject  in  the  best  light  it 
can,  takes  the  most  developed  aspect  of  it  which  it  can 
find,  and  throws  upon  it  the  most  congruous  colours  it 
can  use.  But  grotesque  art  does  just  the  contrary.  It 
takes  the  type,  so  to  say,  in  difficulties.    It  gives  a  repre-  3° 


324  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

sentation  of  it  in  its  minimum  development,  amid  the 
circumstances  least  favorable  to  it,  just  while  it  is 
struggling  with  obstacles,  just  where  it  is  encumbered 
with  incongruities.  It  deals,  to  use  the  language  of 
5  science,  not  with  normal  types  but  with  abnormal  speci- 
mens; to  use  the  language  of  old  philosophy,  not  with 
what  Nature  is  striving  to  be,  but  with  what  by  some 
lapse  she  has  happened  to  become. 

This  art  works  by  contrast.    It  enables  you  to  see,  it 

io  makes  you  see,  the  perfect  type  by  painting  the  opposite 
deviation.  It  shows  you  what  ought  to  be  by  what  ought 
not  to  be;  when  complete,  it  reminds  you  of  the  perfect 
image,  by  showing  you  the  distorted  and  imperfect  image. 
Of  this  art  we  possess  in  the  present  generation  one 

15  prolific  master.  Mr.  Browning  is  an  artist  working 
by  incongruity.  Possibly  hardly  one  of  his  most  con- 
siderable efforts  can  be  found  which  is  not  great  because 
of  its  odd  mixture.  He  puts  together  things  which  no 
one  else  would  have  put  together,  and  produces  on  our 

20  minds  a  result  which  no  one  else  would  have  produced, 
or  tried  to  produce.  His  admirers  may  not  like  all  we 
may  have  to  say  of  him.  But  in  our  way  we  too  are 
among  his  admirers.  No  one  ever  read  him  without 
seeing  not  only  his  great  ability  but  his  great  mind. 

25  He  not  only  possesses  superficial  usable  talents, 
but  the  strong  something,  the  inner  secret  something, 
which  uses  them  and  controls  them;  he  is  great  not  in 
mere  accomplishments,  but  in  himself.  He  has  applied 
a  hard  strong  intellect  to  real  life;  he  has  applied  the 

30  same  intellect  to  the  problems  of  his  age.    He  has 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   325 

striven  to  know  what  is:  he  has  endeavored  not  to  be 
cheated  by  counterfeits,  not  to  be  infatuated  with  illu- 
sions.    His  heart  is  in  what  he  says.     He  has  battered 
his  brain  against  his  creed  till  he  believes  it.     He  has 
accomplishments  too,  the  more  effective  because  they    5 
are  mixed.     He  is  at  once  a  student  of  mysticism  and 
a  citizen  of  the  world.     He  brings  to  the  club  sofa  dis- 
tinct visions  of  old  creeds,  intense  images  of  strange 
thoughts:  he  takes  to  the  bookish  student  tidings  of 
wild  Bohemia,  and  little  traces  of  the  demimonde.     He  10 
puts  down  what  is  good  for  the  naughty,  and  what  is 
naughty  for  the  good.     Over  women  his  easier  writ- 
ings exercise  that  imperious  power  which  belongs  to 
the  writings  of  a  great  man  of  the  world  upon  such 
matters.     He  knows  women,  and  therefore  they  wish  15 
to  know  him.     If  we  blame  many  of  Browning's  efforts, 
it  is  in  the  interest  of  art,  and  not  from  a  wish  to  hurt  or 
degrade  him. 

If  we  wanted  to  illustrate  the  nature  of  grotesque  art 
by  an  exaggerated  instance,  we  should  have  selected  a  20 
poem  which  the  chance  of  late  publication  brings  us 
in  this  new  volume.  Mr.  Browning  has  undertaken 
to  describe  what  may  be  called  mind  in  difficulties — 
mind  set  to  make  out  the  universe  under  the  worst 
and  hardest  circumstances.  He  takes  Caliban,  not  25 
perhaps  exactly  Shakespeare's  Caliban,  but  an  analo- 
gous and  worse  creature;  a  strong  thinking  power,  but 
a  nasty  creature — a  gross  animal,  uncontrolled  and 
unelevated  by  any  feeling  of  religion  or  duty.  The 
delineation  of  him  will  show  that  Mr.  Browning  does  30 


326  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

not  wish  to  take  undue  advantage  of  his  readers  by  a 
choice  of  nice  subjects. 

"  '  Will  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best, 
Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
5  With  elbows  wide,  fists  clinched  to  prop  his  chin. 

And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool  slush, 
And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things  course, 
Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh : 
And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion  plant, 
10  Coating  the  cave  top  as  a  brow  its  eye, 

Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard, 

And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside, 

And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and  crunch, — " 

This  pleasant  creature  proceeds  to  give  his  idea  of  the 
15  origin  of  the  Universe,  and  it  is  as  follows.  Caliban 
speaks  in  the  third  person,  and  is  of  opinion  that  the 
maker  of  the  Universe  took  to  making  it  on  account  of 
his  personal  discomfort: — 

"  Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos  ! 
20  'Thinketh,  He  dwelleth  i'  the  cold  o'  the  moon. 

"  'Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to  match, 
But  not  the  stars  ;  the  stars  came  otherwise ; 
Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors,  such  as  that : 
Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  grows  thereon, 
25  And  snaky  sea  which  rounds  and  ends  the  same. 

"  'Thinketh,  it  came  of  being  ill  at  ease  : 
He  hated  that  He  cannot  change  His  cold, 
Nor  cure  its  ache.     'Hath  spied  an  icy  fish 
That  longed  to  'scape  the  rock  stream  where  she  lived, 
30  And  thaw  herself  within  the  lukewarm  brine 

O'  the  lazy  sea  her  stream  thrusts  far  amid, 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   327 

A  crystal  spike  'twixt  two  warm  walls  of  wave ; 

Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  repulse 

At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  her  life, 

(Green-dense  and  dim- delicious,  bred  o'  the  sun,) 

Flounced  back  from  bliss  she  was  not  born  to  breathe,  5 

And  in  her  old  bounds  buried  her  despair, 

Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike :  so  He. 

"  'Thinketh,  He  made  thereat  the  sun,  this  isle, 
Trees  and  the  fowls  here,  beast  and  creeping  thing. 
Yon  otter,  sleek-wet,  black,  lithe  as  a  leech;  10 

Yon  auk,  one  fire-eye,  in  a  ball  of  foam, 
That  floats  and  feeds  ;  a  certain  badger  brown 
He  hath  watched  hunt  with  that  slant  white-wedge  eye 
By  moonlight ;  and  the  pie  with  the  long  tongue 
That  pricks  deep  into  oakwarts  for  a  worm,  ic 

And  says  a  plain  word  when  she  finds  her  prize, 
But  will  not  eat  the  ants ;  the  ants  themselves 
That  build  a  wall  of  seeds  and  settled  stalks 
About  their  hole — He  made  all  these  and  more, 
Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite  :  how  else  ?  "  20 

It  may  seem  perhaps  to  most  readers  that  these  lines 
are  very  difficult,  and  that  they  are  unpleasant.  And 
so  they  are.  We  quote  them  to  illustrate,  not  the  suc- 
cess of  grotesque  art  but  the  nature  of  grotesque  art. 
It  shows  the  end  at  which  this  species  of  art  aims,  and  25 
if  it  fails  it  is  from  overboldness  in  the  choice  of  a  sub- 
ject by  the  artist,  or  from  the  defects  of  its  execution. 
A  thinking  faculty  more  in  difficulties — a  great  type — 
an  inquisitive,  searching  intellect  under  more  disagree- 
able conditions,  with  worse  helps,  more  likely  to  find  30 
falsehood,  less  likely  to  find  truth,  can  scarcely  be 
imagined.     Nor  is  the  mere  description  of  the  thought 


328  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

at  all  bad:  on  the  contrary,  if  we  closely  examine  it,  it  is 
very  clever.  Hardly  any  one  could  have  amassed  so 
many  ideas  at  once  nasty  and  suitable.  But  scarcely 
any  readers — any  casual  readers — who  are  not  of  the 
5  sect  of  Mr.  Browning's  admirers  will  be  able  to  examine 
it  enough  to  appreciate  it.  From  a  defect,  partly  of 
subject,  and  partly  of  style,  many  of  Mr.  Browning's 
works  make  a  demand  upon  the  reader's  zeal  and  sense 
of  duty  to  which  the  nature  of  most  readers  is  unequal. 

10  They  have  on  the  turf  the  convenient  expression  "stay- 
ing power:"  some  horses  can  hold  on  and  others  cannot. 
But  hardly  any  reader  not  of  especial  and  peculiar 
nature  can  hold  on  through  such  composition.  There 
is  not  enough  of  "staying  power"  in  human  nature. 

15  One  of  his  greatest  admirers  once  owned  to  us  that  he 
seldom  or  never  began  a  new  poem  without  looking  on 
in  advance,  and  foreseeing  with  caution  what  length  of 
intellectual  adventure  he  was  about  to  commence. 
Whoever  will  work  hard  at  such  poems  will  find  much 

20  mind    in   them:    they  are    a    sort   of  quarry  of   ideas, 

but  whosoever  goes  there  will  find  these  ideas  in  such 

a  jagged,  ugly,  useless  shape  that  he  can  hardly  bear 

them. 

We  are  not  judging  Mr.  Browning  simply  from  a  hasty, 

25  recent  production.  All  poets  are  liable  to  misconcep- 
tions, and  if  such  a  piece  as  Caliban  upon  Setebos  were 
an  isolated  error,  a  venial  and  particular  exception, 
we  should  have  given  it  no  prominence.  We  have  put 
it  forward  because  it  just  elucidates  both  our  subject 

30  and  the  characteristics  of  Mr.  Browning.     But  many 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    329 

other  of  his  best  known  pieces  do  so  almost  equally; 
what  several  of  his  devotees  think  his  best  piece  is 
quite  enough  illustrative  for  anything  we  want.  It 
appears  that  on  Holy  Cross  day  at  Rome  the  Jews 
were  obliged  to  listen  to  a  Christian  sermon  in  the  hope  5 
of  their  conversion,  though  this  is,  according  to  Mr. 
Browning,  what  they  really  said  when  they  came  away: — 

"  Fee,  faw,  fum  1  bubble  and  squeak  ! 
Blessedest  Thursday's  the  fat  of  the  week. 
Rumble  and  tumble,  sleek  and  rough,  10 

Stinking  and  savory,  smug  and  gruff, 
Take  the  church  road,  for  the  bell's  due  chime 
Gives  us  the  summons — 't  is  sermon-time  1 

"Boh,  here's  Barnabas  !  Job,  that's  you? 
Up  stumps  Solomon — bustling  too?  15 

Shame,  man  1  greedy  beyond  your  years 
To  handsel  the  bishop's  shaving-shears? 
Fur  play's  a  jewel !  leave  friends  in  the  lurch ? 
Stand  on  a  line  ere  you  start  for  the  church  1 

"  Higgledy,  piggledy,  packed  we  lie,  20 

Rats  in  a  hamper,  swine  in  a  sty, 
Wasps  in  a  bottle,  frogs  in  a  sieve, 
Worms  in  a  carcase,  fleas  in  a  sleeve. 
Hist !  square  shoulders,  settle  your  thumbs 
And  buzz  for  the  bishop — here  he  comes."  25 

And  after  similar  nice    remarks   for  a  church,  the  edi- 
fied congregation  concludes: — 

"  But  now,  while  the  scapegoats  leave  our  flock, 
And  the  rest  sit  silent  and  count  the  clock, 


3$0  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

Since  forced  to  muse  the  appointed  time 
On  these  precious  facts  and  truths  sublime,— 
Let  us  fitly  employ  it,  under  our  breath, 
In  saying  Ben  Ezra's  Song  of  Death. 

5  "  For  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  the  night  he  died, 

Called  sons  and  sons'  sons  to  his  side, 
And  spoke,   '  This  world  has  been  harsh  and  strange: 
Something  is  wrong :  there  needeth  a  change. 
But  what,  or  where?  at  the  last  or  first? 
IO  In  one  point  only  we  sinned,  at  worst. 

"  '  The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  Jacob  yet, 
And  again  in  his  border  see  Israel  set. 
When  Judah  beholds  Jerusalem, 
The  stranger-seed  shall  be  joined  to  them  : 
15  To  Jacob's  House  shall  the  Gentiles  cleave. 

So  the  Prophet  saith  and  his  sons  believe. 

"  '  Ay,  the  children  of  the  chosen  race 

Shall  carry  and  bring  them  to  their  place : 
In  the  land  of  the  Lord  shall  lead  the  same, 
20  Bondsmen  and  handmaids.     Who  shall  blame, 

When  the  slave  enslave,  the  oppressed  ones  o^r 
The  oppressor  triumph  forevermore? 

" '  God  spoke,  and  gave  us  the  word  to  keep : 
Bade  never  fold  the  hands  nor  sleep 
25  'Mid  a  faithless  world, — at  watch  and  ward, 

Till  Christ  at  the  end  relieve  our  guard. 
By  His  servant  Moses  the  watch  was  set : 
Though  near  upon  cock-crow,  we  keep  it  yet. 

"  '  Thou  !  if  Thou  wast  He,  who  at  mid  watch  came 
30  By  the  starlight,  naming  a  dubious  Name ! 

And  if,  too  heavy  with  sleep — too  rash 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   33I 

With  fear — O  Thou,  if  that  martyr  gash 
Fell  on  Thee  coming  to  take  Thine  own, 
And  we  gave  the  Cross,  when  we  owed  the  Throne — 

" '  Thou  art  the  Judge.     We  are  bruised  thus. 

But,  the  Judgment  over,  join  sides  with  us  1  5 

Thine  too  is  the  cause !  and  not  more  Thine 
Than  ours,  is  the  work  of  these  dogs  and  swine, 
Whose  life  laughs  through  and  spits  at  their  creed, 
Who  maintain  Thee  in  word,  and  defy  Thee  in  deedl 

•'«  We  withstood  Christ  then?  be  mindful  how  10 

At  least  we  withstand  Barabbas  now  1 
Was  our  outrage  sore  ?     But  the  worst  we  spared, 
To  have  called  these — Christians,  had  wre  dared  1 
Let  defiance  to  them  pay  mistrust  of  Thee, 
And  Rome  make  amends  for  Calvary  I  15 

"  '  By  the  torture,  prolonged  from  age  to  age, 
By  the  infamy,  Israel's  heritage, 
By  the  Ghetto's  plague,  by  the  garb's  disgrace, 
By  the  badge  of  shame,  by  the  felon's  place, 
By  the  branding-tool,  the  bloody  whip, 
And  the  summons  to  Christian  fellowship, — 


20 


" '  We  boast  our  proof  that  at  last  the  Jew 

Would  wrest  Christ's  name  from  the  Devil's  crew. 

Thy  face  took  never  so  deep  a  shade 

But  we  fought  them  in  it,  God  our  aid  !  25 

A  trophy  to  bear,  as  we  march,  Thy  band, 

South,  East,  and  on  to  the  Pleasant  Land  ! ' " 

It  is  very  natural  that  a  poet  whose  wishes  incline, 
or  whose  genius  conducts,  him  to  a  grotesque  art,  should 
be  attracted  towards  mediaeval  subjects.     There  is  no  30 
age  whose  legends  are  so  full  of  grotesque  subjects, 


332  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

and  no  age  whose  real  life  was  so  fit  to  suggest  them. 
Then,  more  than  at  any  other  time,  good  principles 
have  been  under  great  hardships.  The  vestiges  of 
ancient  civilization,  the  germs  of  modern  civilization, 
5  the  little  remains  of  what  had  been,  the  small  begin- 
nings of  what  is,  were  buried  under  a  cumbrous  mass 
of  barbarism  and  cruelty.  Good  elements  hidden  in 
horrid  accompaniments  are  the  special  theme  of  gro- 
tesque art,  and  these  mediaeval  life  and  legends  afford 

10  more  copiously  than  could  have  been  furnished  before 
Christianity  gave  its  new  elements  of  good,  or  since 
modern  civilization  has  removed  some  few  at  least  of 
the  old  elements  of  destruction.  A  buried  life  like  the 
spiritual   mediaeval   was   Mr.    Browning's   natural   ele- 

15  ment,  and  he  was  right  to  be  attracted  by  it.  His  mis- 
take has  been,  that  he  has  not  made  it  pleasant;  that  he 
has  forced  his  art  to  topics  on  which  no  one  could  charm, 
or  on  which  he,  at  any  rate,  could  not;  that  on  these 
occasions  and  in  these  poems  he  has  failed  in  fascinat- 

20  ing  men  and  women  of  sane  taste. 

We  say  "sane"  because  there  is  a  most  formidable 
and  estimable  insane  taste.  The  will  has  great  though 
indirect  power  over  the  taste,  just  as  it  has  over  the 
belief.     There  are  some  horrid  beliefs  from  which  hu- 

25  man  nature  revolts,  from  which  at  first  it  shrinks, 
to  which,  at  first,  no  effort  can  force  it.  But  if  we  fix 
the  mind  upon  them  they  have  a  power  over  us  just 
because  of  their  natural  offensiveness.  They  are  like 
the  sight  of  human  blood:  experienced  soldiers  tell  us 

30  that  at  first  men  are  sickened  by  the  smell  and  new- 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   333 

ness  of  blood  almost  to  death  and  fainting,  but  as  soon 
as  they  harden  their  hearts  and  stiffen  their  minds, 
as  soon  as  they  will  bear  it,  then  comes  an  appetite  for 
slaughter,  a  tendency  to  gloat  on  carnage,  to  love  blood, 
at  least  for  the  moment,  with  a  deep,  eager  love.  It  5 
is  a  principle  that  if  we  put  down  a  healthy  instinctive 
aversion,  Nature  avenges  herself  by  creating  an  un- 
healthy insane  attraction.  For  this  reason,  the  most 
earnest  truth-seeking  men  fall  into  the  worst  delusions; 
they  will  not  let  their  mind  alone;  they  force  it  towards  10 
some  ugly  thing,  which  a  crochet  of  argument,  a  con- 
ceit of  intellect  recommends,  and  Nature  punishes 
their  disregard  of  her  warning  by  subjection  to  the  ugly 
one,  by  belief  in  it.  Just  so  the  most  industrious  crit- 
ics get  the  most  admiration.  They  think  it  unjust  to  15 
rest  in  their  instinctive  natural  horror:  they  overcome 
it,  and  angry  Nature  gives  them  over  to  ugly  poems  and 
marries  them  to  detestable  stanzas. 

Mr.  Browning  possibly,  and  some  of  the  worst  of 
Mr.  Browning's  admirers  certainly,  will  say  that  these  20 
grotesque  objects  exist  in  real  life,  and  therefore  they 
ought  to  be,  at  least  may  be,  described  in  art.  But, 
though  pleasure  is  not  the  end  of  poetry,  pleasing  is  a 
condition  of  poetry.  An  exceptional  monstrosity  of 
horrid  ugliness  cannot  be  made  pleasing,  except  it  be  25 
made  to  suggest — to  recall — the  perfection,  the  beauty, 
from  which  it  is  a  deviation.  Perhaps  in  extreme 
cases  no  art  is  equal  to  this;  but  then  such  self-imposed 
problems  should  not  be  worked  by  the  artist;  these  out- 
of-the-way  and  detestable  subjects  should  be  let  alone  30 


334  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

by  him.  It  is  rather  characteristic  of  Mr.  Browning 
to  neglect  this  rule.  He  is  the  most  of  a  realist,  and 
the  least  of  an  idealist,  of  any  poet  we  know.  He  evi- 
dently sympathizes  with  some  part  at  least  of  Bishop 
5  Blougram's  apology.  Anyhow  this  world  exists.  "There 
is  good  wine — there  are  pretty  women — there  are  com- 
fortable benefices — there  is  money,  and  it  is  pleasant 
to  spend  it.  Accept  the  creed  of  your  age  and  you  get 
these,  reject  that  creed  and  you  lose  them.     And  for 

10  what  do  you  lose  them?  For  a  fancy  creed  of  your 
own,  which  no  one  else  will  accept,  which  hardly  any 
one  will  call  a  'creed,'  which  most  people  will  consider 
a  sort  of  unbelief."  Again,  Mr.  Browning  evidently 
loves  what  we  may  call  the  realism,  the  grotesque  real- 

15  ism,  of  orthodox  Christianity.  Many  parts  of  it  in 
which  great  divines  have  felt  keen  difficulties  are  quite 
pleasant  to  him.  He  must  see  his  religion,  he  must 
have  an  "object  lesson"  in  believing.  He  must  have 
a  creed  that  will    ake,  which  wins  and  holds  the  mis- 

20  cellaneous  world,  which  stout  men  will  heed,  which 
nice  women  will  adore.  The  spare  moments  of  soli- 
tary religion — the  "obstinate  questionings,"  the  high 
"instincts,"  the  "first  affections,"  the  "shadowy  re- 
collections," 

25  "Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day — 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing;" 

the   great    but    vague   faith — the   unutterable   tenets — ■ 

seem  to  him  worthless,  visionary;  they  are  not  enough 

30  "immersed  in  matter;"  they  move  about  "in  worlds  not 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING   335 

realized."  We  wish  he  could  be  tried  like  the  prophet 
once;  he  would  have  found  God  in  the  earthquake 
and  the  storm;  he  would  have  deciphered  from  them 
a  bracing  and  rough  religion:  he  would  have  known 
that  crude  men  and  ignorant  women  felt  them  too,  5 
and  he  would  accordingly  have  trusted  them;  but  he 
would  have  distrusted  and  disregarded  the  "still  small 
voice:"  he  would  have  said  it  was  "fancy" — a  thing 
you  thought  you  heard  to-day,  but  were  not  sure  you 
had  heard  to-morrow:  he  would  call  it  a  nice  illusion,  10 
an  immaterial  prettiness;  he  would  ask  triumphantly, 
"  How  are  you  to  get  the  mass  of  men  to  heed  this  little 
thing?'  he  would  have  persevered  and  insisted,  "My 
wife  does  not  hear  it." 

But  although  a  suspicion  of  beauty,  and  a  taste  for  15 
ugly   reality,    have    led    Mr.    Browning    to    exaggerate 
the  functions  and  to  caricature  the  nature  of  grotesque 
art,  we  own,  or  rather  we  maintain,  that  he  has  given 
many  excellent  specimens  of  that  art  within  its  proper 
boundaries  and  limits.     Take  an  example,  his  picture  20 
of  what  we  may  call  the  bourgeois  nature  in  difficulties; 
in  the  utmost  difficulty,  in  contact  with  magic  and  the 
supernatural.     He   has   made  of  it  something  homely, 
comic,   true;    reminding   us   of   what    bourgeois   nature 
really   is.     By   showing   us   the   type   under   abnormal  25 
conditions,  he  reminds  us  of  the  type  under  its  best  and 
most  satisfactory  conditions. 

[Bagehot  here  quotes  The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.] 

Something  more  we  had  to  say  of  Mr.   Browning, 


33^  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

but  we  must  stop.  It  is  singularly  characteristic  of 
this  age  that  the  poems  which  rise  to  the  surface  should 
be  examples  of  ornate  art,  and  grotesque  art,  not  of 
pure  art.  We  live  in  the  realm  of  the  half  educated. 
5  The  number  of  readers  grows  daily,  but  the  quality  of 
readers  does  not  improve  rapidly.  The  middle  class 
is  scattered,  heedless;  it  is  well-meaning,  but  aim- 
less; wishing  to  be  wise,  but  ignorant  how  to  be  wise. 
The  aristocracy  of  England  never  was  a  literary  aris- 

10  tocracy,  never  even  in  the  days  of  its  full  power,  of  its 
unquestioned  predominance,  did  it  guide- — did  it  even 
seriously  try  to  guide — the  taste  of  England.  With- 
out guidance  young  men,  and  tired  men,  are  thrown 
amongst  a  mass  of  books;  they  have  to  choose  which 

15  they  like;  many  of  them  would  much  like  to  improve 
their  culture,  to  chasten  their  taste,  if  they  knew  how. 
But  left  to  themselves  they  take,  not  pure  art  but  showy 
art;  not  that  which  permanently  relieves  the  eye  and  makes 
it  happy  whenever  it  looks,  and  as  long  as  it  looks,  but 

20  glaring  art  which  catches  and  arrests  the  eye  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  which  in  the  end  fatigues  it.  But  before  the 
wholesome  remedy  of  nature — the  fatigue — arrives,  the 
hasty  reader  has  passed  on  to  some  new  excitement, 
which  in  its  turn  stimulates  for  an  instant,  and  then  is 

25  passed  by  forever.  These  conditions  are  not  favorable 
to  the  due  appreciation  of  pure  art — of  that  art  which 
must  be  known  before  it  is  admired — which  must  have 
fastened  irrevocably  on  the  brain  before  you  appre- 
ciate it — which  you  must  love  ere  it  will  seem  worthy 

30  of  your  love.     Women  too,  whose  voice  on  literature 


WORDSWORTH,    TENNYSON,    BROWNING    337 

counts  as  well  as  that  of  men — and  in  a  light  literature 
counts  for  more  than  that  of  men — women,  such  as 
we  know  them,  such  as  they  are  likely  to  be,  ever  prefer 
a  delicate  unreality  to  a  true  or  firm  art.  A  dressy 
literature,  an  exaggerated  literature  seem  to  be  fated  5 
to  us.     These  are  our  curses,  as  other  times  had  theirs. 

"And  yet 
Think  not  the  living  times  forget, 
Ages  of  heroes  fought  and  fell, 

That  Homer  in  the  end  might  tell;  10 

O'er  groveling  generations  past 
Upstood  the  Doric  fane  at  last ; 
And  countless  hearts  on  countless  years 
Had  wasted  thoughts,  and  hopes,  and  fears9 
Rude  laughter  and  unmeaning  tears;  15 

Ere  England  Shakespeare  saw,  or  Rome 
The  pure  perfection  of  her  dome. 
Others  I  doubt  not  if  not  we, 
The  issue  of  our  toils  shall  see ; 

Young  children  gather  as  their  own  20 

The  harvest  that  the  dead  had  sown, 
The  dead  forgotten  and  unknown." 


WALTER  HORATIO  PATER 

[Walter  Horatio  Pater  was  born  in  London,  August  4,  1839, 
and  was  graduated  B.  A.  at  Queen's  College,  Oxford,  in  1862.  The 
greater  portion  of  his  unusually  retired  life  was  spent  at  Oxford. 
Pater's  visit  to  Italy  in  1869  decided  the  growing  struggle  be 
tween  art  and  the  church,  and  from  that  time  on,  until  his  death 
in  1894,  Pater's  task  was  the  interpretation  of  the  Renaissance  to 
the  modern  world.  Aside  from  the  expository  value  of  Pater's 
work,  it  is  chiefly  famed  for  the  beauty  and  accuracy  of  its  style. 
Pater's  chief  essays  now  appear  under  the  general  titles  Imaginary 
Portraits,  Appreciations,  Plato  and  Platonism,  and  The  Renais- 
sance: Studies  in  Art  and  Poetry.  Besides  these  he  made  two  at- 
tempts at  the  longer  narrative  form  in  Marius  the  Epicurean  and 
the  unfinished  Gaston  de  Latour.] 

Some  one  has  called  The  Renaissance:  Studies  in  Art 
and  Poetry  Pater's  "golden  book"  because  it  contains 
the  best  work  of  that  most  careful  writer.  And  of  all 
the  essays  in  the  volume  that  on  Leonardo  da  Vinci  is 
the  best.  First  of  all  Walter  Pater  was  a  stylist;  secondly 
he  was  the  expounder  in  nineteenth  century  England  of 
the  subtler  meanings  of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  In 
this  essay  structure  and  phrase  adapt  themselves  most 
easily  to  the  expression  of  the  deepest  interests  of  Pater's 
life.    And  the  result  is  a  masterpiece. 

Our  interest  in  Pater  lies  first  in  his  peculiar  theories 
of  literary  art.  For  no  English  writer  has  ever  before 
gained  the  effects  in  style  that  Pater  gained.  It  will 
be  noticed  that  in  this  essay  Pater  gives  us  the  careful 
etching  of  a  character.  With  little  care  for  the  sequence 
of  events  he  seeks  to  give  the  static  impression  of  a 
finished  study.    This  is  representative  of  all  of  Pater's 

338 


WALTER  HORATIO  PATER       339 

work.  As  far  as  possible  he  avoids  the  effect  of  move- 
ment and  of  climax.  He  never  varies  the  tempo  what- 
ever may  be  the  interest  or  the  suspense.  Like  painting 
and  sculpture  his  art  is  an  art  of  design,  and  not,  like 
drama  for  instance,  an  expanding  and  developing  art 
of  cumulative  appeals. 

Along  with  the  advantages  of  this  static  style  there 
are  certain  disadvantages.  For  one  thing  the  author  is 
obscured  far  behind  his  work.  There  is  a  lack  of  warmth 
and  spontaneity.  Predetermination  is  manifest  every- 
where. The  artistry  is  so  fine  that  while  it  does  not 
obtrude  itself  the  reader  is  conscious  of  it.  Even  the 
pathos  is  the  artist's  pathos  rather  than  the  surrendered 
passion  of  the  lover  of  humanity.  Sorrow  itself  is  tacitly 
accepted  as  a  thing  to  be  treated  in  adequate  artistic 
guise;  just  as  Leonardo,  with  studied  forethought,  draws 
Beatrice  d'Este  "in  sad  earth-colored  raiment,  set 
with  pale  stones." 

Pater's  style  is  marked  by  two  qualities,  exactitude 
and  mystery.  He  sought  the  ends  of  exactitude  in  his 
careful  use  of  words.  Like  Flaubert  in  France,  Pater 
believed  that  there  is  one  word  for  every  idea.  And  to 
him  the  word  was  more  than  a  mechanical  symbol. 
All  the  charm  of  that  word  lay  for  him  in  its  hidden 
and  reminiscent  meanings  rather  than  in  its  etymology. 
Yet  by  studying  etymology  he  was  enabled  to  give 
quaint  turns  to  words,  gaining  in  the  midst  of  our  loose 
meanings  the  novelty  of  beautiful  historical  preciseness. 
So  in  Leonardo  he  speaks  of  "implicated  hands"  and 
again  he  says  that  the  image  was  "  projected." 

That  "curiosity"  which  came  so  near  to  killing  the 
art  in  Leonardo,  but  which  finally  served  more  highly 
to  refine  the  old  beauty,  was  Pater's  also.  This  is  the 
second  distinctive  quality  of  his  marvelous  style.  Some 
say  that  Pater's  style  is  obscure.  It  is  better  to  say 
that  it  is  rich  in  mystery,  that  it  fascinates  us  as  does 


34°  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

the  work  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  by  "something  enig- 
matical beyond  the  usual  measure  of  great  men."  Pure 
logic  was  but  a  portion  of  Pater's  world.  To  this  he 
added  color,  tone,  and  atmosphere.  Therefore  his 
style  was  sinuous,  lithe,  and  complex  but  never  tortuous 
and  turbid.  It  was  not  his  desire  that  all  of  the  beau- 
ties of  his  style  should  be  on  the  surface.  Behind  the 
immediate  interest  of  rational  statement  there  is  al- 
ways the  more  recondite  beauty  of  veiled  allusion  or 
lingering  reminiscence.  Of  Pater's  style  one  can  say, 
as  of  the  sea,  that  its  depth  is  a  factor  in  its  surface  im- 
pressiveness. 

We  have  said  that  Pater  is  an  etcher  and  not  a  nar- 
rator. This  is  true  even  in  his  novels.  In  Marins  the 
Epicurean  a  character  is  engraved,  as  if  the  successive 
changes  were  in  fact  but  revelations  of  that  which  had 
existed  from  the  first.  But  in  Leonardo  the  appearance 
of  a  chronological  order  is  given  in  the  fact  that  the  life 
of  the  great  painter  seems  to  fall  into  three  clearly 
marked  divisions.  Beginning  with  the  master  note  of 
Leonardo's  character,  the  author  then  presents  the  ar- 
tist's childhood  in  a  series  of  quick  flashing  images  and 
allusions.  The  rest  of  the  essay  is  a  discussion  of  the 
operation  of  Leonardo's  curiosity  upon  the  works  of  his 
life.  Sometimes  it  drove  him  to  the  essaying  of  im- 
possible things;  sometimes  to  investigation  and  analysis. 
Just  when  his  curiosity  seemed  about  to  mislead  him 
into  fruitless  paths,  he  makes  it  the  servant  of  his  crav- 
ing for  beauty.  Curiosity  and  the  desire  0}  beauty  are 
the  elementary  forces  in  his  genius.  As  both  of  these 
forces  were  strong,  Leonardo's  was  a  new  art.  He 
painted  the  withdrawn,  the  refined,  the  recherche.  In 
nature  he  searched  for  the  fleeting  charm.  Because  in 
La  Gioconda,  above  all  his  work,  he  found  and  stated 
the  evanescent  factors  of  personality,  this  is  the  crown 
of  his  achievement. 


LEONARDO   DA   VINCI  34 1 

Not  to  see  too  much  of  an  author  in  his  work  or  to 
stretch  his  exposition  of  a  loved  historical  figure  to  serve 
unduly  as  self-revelation,  it  cannot  but  seem  that  Pater 
saw  in  Leonardo  the  ideals  that  he  himself  espoused. 
Walter  Pater  writes  always  with  the  reader  well  out  of 
view.  So  also  he  is  careful  to  make  his  criticism  ob- 
jective. But  one  cannot  but  read  in  the  overwhelming 
eloquence  of  the  end  of  the  essay  that  the  "curious 
beauty"  which  Leonardo  da  Vinci  sought  and  found  was 
to  Pater,  this  "lover  of  strange  souls,"  the  end  supremely 
to  be  desired. 

LEONARDO   DA  VINCI 

In  Vasari's  life  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  as  we  now  read 
it  there  are  some  variations  from  the  first  edition.  There, 
the  painter  who  has  fixed  the  outward  type  of  Christ 
for  succeeding  centuries  was  a  bold  speculator,  holding 
lightly  by  other  men's  beliefs,  setting  philosophy  above  5 
Christianity.  Words  of  his,  trenchant  enough  to  justify 
this  impression,  are  not  recorded,  and  would  have  been 
out  of  keeping  with  a  genius  of  which  one  characteristic 
is  the  tendency  to  lose  itself  in  a  refined  and  graceful 
mystery  The  suspicion  was  but  the  time-honored  mode  10 
in  which  the  world  stamps  its  appreciation  of  one  who 
has  thoughts  for  himself  alone,  his  high  indifference, 
his  intolerance  of  the  common  forms  of  things;  and  in 
the  second  edition  the  image  was  changed  into  some- 
thing fainter  and  more  conventional.  But  it  is  still  by  15 
a  retain  mystery  in  his  work,  and  something  enigmat- 
ical beyond  the  usual  measure  of  great  men,  that  he 
fascinates,  or  perhaps  half  repels.     His  life  is  one  of 


342  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

sudden  revolts,  with  intervals  in  which  he  works  not  at 
all,  or  apart  from  the  main  scope  of  his  work.  By  a 
strange  fortune  the  works  on  which  his  more  popular 
fame  rested  disappeared  early  from  the  world,  as  the 
5  Battle  of  the  Standard;  or  are  mixed  obscurely  with  the 
work  of  meaner  hands,  as  the  Last  Supper.  His  type 
of  beauty  is  so  exotic  that  it  fascinates  a  larger  number 
than  it  delights,  and  seems  more  than  that  of  any  other 
artist  to  reflect  ideas  and  views  and  some  scheme  of  the 

xo  world  within;  so  that  he  seemed  to  his  contemporaries 
to  be  the  possessor  of  some  unsanctified  and  secret  wis- 
dom; as  to  Michelet  and  others  to  have  anticipated 
modern  ideas.  He  trifles  with  his  genius,  and  crowds 
all  his  chief  work  into  a  few  tormented  years  of  later 

15  life;  yet  he  is  so  possessed  by  his  genius  that  he  passes 

unmoved  through  the  most  tragic  events,  overwhelming 

his  country  and  friends,  like  one  who  comes  across  them 

by  chance  on  some  secret  errand. 

His  legend,  as  the  French  say,  with  the  anecdotes 

20  which  every  one  knows,  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  in 
Vasari.  Later  writers  merely  copied  it,  until,  in  i8o4> 
Carlo  Amoretti  applied  to  it  a  criticism  which  left  hardly 
a  date  fixed,  and  not  one  of  those  anecdotes  untouched. 
The  various  questions  thus  raised  have  since  that  time 

25  become,  one  after  another,  subjects  of  special  study, 
and  mere  antiquarianism  has  in  this  direction  little 
more  to  do.  For  others  remain  the  editing  of  the  thir- 
teen books  of  his  manuscripts,  and  the  separation  by 
technical  criticism  of  what  i-n  his  reputed  works  is  really 

3°  his,  from  what  is  only  half  his,  or  the  work  of  his  pupils. 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI  343 

But  a  lover  of  strange  souls  may  still  analyze  for  himself 
the  impression  made  on  him  by  those  works,  and  try 
to  reach  through  it  a  definition  of  the  chief  elements  of 
Leonardo's  genius.  The  legend,  corrected  and  enlarged 
by  its  critics,  may  now  and  then  intervene  to  support  5 
the  results  of  this  analysis. 

His  life  has  three  divisions — thirty  years  at  Florence, 
nearly  twenty  years  at  Milan,  then  nineteen  years  of 
wandering,  till  he  sinks  to  rest  under  the  protection  of 
Francis  the  First  at  the  Chateau  de  Clou.  The  dishonor  10 
of  illegitimacy  hangs  over  his  birth.  Piero  Antonio, 
his  father,  was  of  a  noble  Florentine  house,  of  Vinci  in 
the  Vol  d'Arno,  and  Leonardo,  brought  up  delicately 
among  the  true  children  of  that  house,  was  the  love- 
child  of  his  youth,  with  the  keen,  puissant  nature  such  15 
children  often  have.  We  see  him  in  his  youth  fascinating 
all  men  by  his  beauty,  improvising  music  and  songs, 
buying  the  caged  birds  and  setting  them  free,  as  he 
walked  the  streets  of  Florence,  fond  of  odd  bright  dresses 
and  spirited  horses.  20 

From  his  earliest  years  he  designed  many  objects,  and 
constructed  models  in  relief,  of  which  Vasari  mentions 
some  of  women  smiling.  His  father,  pondering  over 
this  promise  in  the  child,  took  him  to  the  workshop  of 
Andrea  del  Verrocchio,  then  the  most  famous  artist  in  25 
Florence.  Beautiful  objects  lay  about  there— reli- 
quaries, pyxes,  silver  images  for  the  pope's  chapel  at 
Rome,  strange  fancy-work  of  the  middle  age,  keeping 
odd  company  with  frncments  of  antiquity,  then  but 
lately  discovered.    Another  student  Leonardo  may  have  30 


344  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

seen  there — a  boy  into  whose  soul  the  level  light  and 
aerial  illusions  of  Italian  sunsets  had  passed,  in  after 
days  famous  as  Perugino.  Verrocchio  was  an  artist  of 
the  earlier  Florentine  type,  carver,  painter,  and  worker 
5  in  metals,  in  one;  designer,  not  of  pictures  only,  but  of 
all  things  for  sacred  or  household  use,  drinking-vessels, 
ambries,  instruments  of  music,  making  them  all  fair  to 
look  upon,  filling  the  common  ways  of  life  with  the  re- 
flection of  some  far-off  brightness;  and  years  of  patience 

10  had  refined  his  hand  till  his  work  was  now  sought  after 
from  distant  places. 

It  happened  that  Verrocchio  was  employed  by  the 
brethren  of  Vallombrosa  to  paint  the  Baptism  of  Christ, 
and  Leonardo  was  allowed  to  finish  an  angel  in  the  left- 

15  hand  corner.  It  was  one  of  those  moments  in  which 
the  progress  of  a  great  thing — here,  that  of  the  art  of 
Italy — presses  hard  and  sharp  on  the  happiness  of  an 
individual,  through  whose  discouragement  and  decrease, 
humanity,   in   more   fortunate   persons,   comes  a   step 

20  nearer  to  its  final  success. 

For  beneath  the  cheerful  exterior  of  the  mere  well- 
paid  craftsman,  chasing  brooches  for  the  copes  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella,  or  twisting  metal  screens  for  the  tombs 
of  the  Medici,  lay  the  ambitious  desire  of  expanding  the 

25  destiny  of  Italian  art  by  a  larger  knowledge  and  insight 
into  things,  a  purpose  in  art  not  unlike  Leonardo's 
still  unconscious  purpose;  and  often,  in  the  modeling 
of  drapery,  or  of  a  lifted  arm,  or  of  hair  cast  back  from 
the  face  there  came  to  him  something  of  the  freer  man- 

30  ner  and  richer  humanity  of  a  later  age.     But  in  this 


LEONARDO   DA   VINCI  345 

Baptism  the  pupil  had  surpassed  the  master;  and  Ver- 
rocchio  turned  away  as  one  stunned,  and  as  if  his  sweet 
earlier  work  must  thereafter  be  distasteful  to  him,  from 
the  bright  animated  angel  of  Leonardo's  hand. 

The  angel  may  still  be  seen  in  Florence,  a  space  of  5 
sunlight  in  the  cold,  labored  old  picture;  but  the  legend 
is  true  only  in  sentiment,  for  painting  had  always  been 
the  art  by  which  Verrocchio  set  least  store.  And  as  in 
a  sense  he  anticipates  Leonardo,  so  to  the  last  Leonardo 
recalls  the  studio  of  Verrocchio,  in  the  love  of  beautiful  10 
toys,  such  as  the  vessel  of  water  for  a  mirror,  and  lovely 
needlework  about  the  implicated  hands  in  the  Modesty 
and  Vanity,  and  of  reliefs,  like  those  cameos  which  in 
the  Virgin  of  the  Balances  hang  all  round  the  girdle  of 
Saint  Michael,  and  of  bright  variegated  stones,  such  as  15 
the  agates  in  the  Saint  Anne,  and  in  a  hieratic  precise- 
ness  and  grace,  as  of  a  sanctuary  swept  and  garnished. 
Amid  all  the  cunning  and  intricacy  of  his  Lombard 
manner  this  never  left  him.  Much  of  it  there  must  have 
been  in  that  lost  picture  of  Paradise,  which  he  prepared  20 
as  a  cartoon  for  tapestry,  to  be  woven  in  the  looms  of 
Flanders.  It  was  the  perfection  of  the  older  Florentine 
style  of  miniature  painting,  with  patient  putting  of  each 
leaf  upon  the  trees  and  each  flower  in  the  grass,  where 
the  first  man  and  woman  were  standing.  25 

And  because  it  was  the  perfection  of  that  style,  it 
awoke  in  Leonardo  some  seed  of  discontent  which  lay 
in  the  secret  places  of  his  nature.  For  the  way  to  per- 
fection is  through  a  series  of  disgusts;  and  this  picture — 
all  that  he  had  done  so  far  in  his  life  at  Florence — was  30 


346  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

after  all  in  the  old  slight  manner.  His  art,  if  it  was  to 
be  something  in  the  world,  must  be  weighted  with  more 
of  the  meaning  of  nature  and  purpose  of  humanity. 
Nature  was  "the  true  mistress  of  higher  intelligences." 
5  So  he  plunged  into  the  study  of  nature.  And  in  doing 
this  he  followed  the  manner  of  the  older  students;  he 
brooded  over  the  hidden  virtues  of  plants  and  crystals, 
the  lines  traced  by  the  stars  as  they  moved  in  the  sky, 
over  the  correspondences  which  exist  between  the  dif- 

io  ferent  orders  of  living  things,  through  which,  to  eyes 
opened,  they  interpret  each  other;  and  for  years  he  seemed 
to  those  about  him  as  one  listening  to  a  voice,  silent  for 
other  men. 

He  learned  here  the  art  of  going  deep,  of  tracking 

15  the  sources  of  expression  to  their  subtlest  retreats,  the 
power  of  an  intimate  presence  in  the  things  he  handled. 
He  did  not  at  once  or  entirely  desert  his  art;  only  he 
was  no  longer  the  cheerful,  objective  painter,  through 
whose  soul,  as  through  clear  glass,  the  bright  figures 

20  of  Florentine  life,  only  made  a  little  mellower  and  more 
pensive  by  the  transit,  passed  on  to  the  white  wall. 
He  wasted  many  days  in  curious  tricks  of  design,  seem- 
ing to  lose  himself  in  the  spinning  of  intricate  devices 
of  lines  and  colors.    He  was  smitten  with  a  love  of  the 

25  impossible — the  perforation  of  mountains,  changing  the 
course  of  rivers,  raising  great  buildings,  such  as  the 
church  of  San  Giovanni,  in  the  air;  all  those  feats  for 
the  performance  of  which  natural  magic  professed  to 
have  the  key.    Later  writers,  indeed,  sec  in  these  efforts 

jo  an  anticipation  of  modern  mechanics;  in  him  they  were 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI  347 

rather  dreams,  thrown  off  by  the  overwrought  and 
laboring  brain.  Two  ideas  were  especially  fixed  in 
him,  as  reflexes  of  things  that  had  touched  his  brain 
in  childhood  beyond  the  measure  of  other  impres- 
sions— the  smiling  of  women  and  the  motion  of  great  5 
waters. 

And  in  such  studies  some  interfusion  of  the  extremes 
of  beauty  and  terror  shaped  itself,  as  an  image  that 
might  be  seen  and  touched,  in  the  mind  of  this  gracious 
youth,  so  fixed  that  for  the  rest  of  his  life  it  never  left  10 
him;  and  as  catching  glimpses  of  it  in  the  strange  eyes 
or  hair  of  chance  people,  he  would  follow  such  about  the 
streets  of  Florence  till  the  sun  went  down,  of  whom 
many  sketches  of  his  remain.  Some  of  these  are  full  of 
a  curious  beauty,  that  remote  beauty  apprehended  only  15 
by  those  who  have  sought  it  carefully;  who,  starting  with 
acknowledged  types  of  beauty,  have  refined  as  far  upon 
these,  as  these  refine  upon  the  world  of  common  forms. 
But  mingled  inextricably  with  this  there  is  an  element 
of  mockery  also;  so  that,  whether  in  sorrow  or  scorn,  20 
he  caricatures  Dante  even.  Legions  of  grotesques 
sweep  under  his  hand;  for  has  not  nature  too  her  gro- 
tesques— the  rent  rock,  the  distorting  light  of  evening 
on  lonely  roads,  the  unveiled  structure  of  man  in  the 
embryo,  or  the  skeleton?  25 

All  these  swarming  fancies  unite  in  the  Medusa  of  the 
Ufflzii.  Vasari's  story  of  an  earlier  Medusa,  painted 
on  a  wooden  shield,  is  perhaps  an  invention;  and  yet, 
properly  told,  has  more  of  the  air  of  truth  about  it  than 
anything  else  in  the  whole  legend.    For  its  real  subject  30 


348  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

is  not  the  serious  work  of  a  man,  but  the  experiment 
of  a  child.  The  lizards  and  glowworms  and  other 
strange  small  creatures  which  haunt  an  Italian  vine- 
yard bring  before  one  the  whole  picture  of  a  child's  life 
5  in  a  Tuscan  dwelling — half  castle,  half  farm — and  are 
as  true  to  nature  as  the  pretended  astonishment  of  the 
father  for  whom  the  boy  has  prepared  a  surprise.  It 
was  not  in  play  that  he  painted  that  other  Medusa,  the 
one  great  picture  which  he  left  behind  him  in  Florence. 

10  The  subject  has  been  treated  in  various  ways;  Leonardo 
alone  cuts  to  its  center;  he  alone  realizes  it  as  the  head 
of  a  corpse,  exercising  its  powers  through  ail  the  cir- 
cumstances of  death.  What  may  be  called  the  fascina- 
tion of  corruption  penetrates  in  every  touch  its  ex- 

15  quisitely  finished  beauty.  About  the  dainty  lines  of  the 
cheek  the  bat  flits  unheeded.  The  delicate  snakes  seem 
literally  strangling  each  other  in  terrified  struggle  to 
escape  from  the  Medusa  brain.  The  hue  which  violent 
death  always  brings  with  it  is  in  the  features:  features 

20  singularly  massive  and  grand,  as  we  catch  them  in- 
verted, in  a  dexterous  foreshortening,  sloping  upwards, 
almost  sliding  down  upon  us,  crown  foremost,  like  a 
great  calm  stone  against  which  the  wave  of  serpents 
breaks.    But  it  is  a  subject  that  may  well  be  left  to  the 

25  beautiful  verses  of  Shelley. 

The  science  of  that  age  was  all  divination,  clairvoy- 
ance, unsubjected  to  our  exact  modern  formulas,  seek- 
ing in  an  instant  of  vision  to  concentrate  a  thousand 
experiences.     Later  writers,  thinking  only  of  the  well- 

30  ordered  treatise  on  painting  which  a  Frenchman,  Raf- 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI  349 

faelle  du  Fresne,  a  hundred  years  afterwards,  compiled 
from     Leonardo's     bewildered      manuscripts,     written 
strangely,  as  his  manner  was,  from  right  to  left,  have 
imagined  a  rigid  order  in  his  inquiries.     But  this  rigid 
order  was  little  in  accordance  with  the  restlessness  of    5 
his  character;  and  if  we  think  of  him  as  the  mere  rea- 
soner  who  subjects  design  to  anatomy,  and  composition 
to  mathematical  rules,  we  shall  hardly  have  of  him  that 
impression  which  those  about  him  received  from  him. 
Poring   over    his   crucibles,    making   experiments   with  10 
color,  trying,  by  a  strange  variation  of  the  alchemist's 
dream,  to  discover  the  secret,  not  of  an  elixir  to  make 
man's  natural  life  immortal,  but  rather  of  giving  immor- 
tality to  the  subtlest  and  most  delicate  effects  of  painting, 
he  seemed  to  them  rather  the  sorcerer  or  the  magician,  15 
possessed  of  curious  secrets  and  a  hidden  knowledge, 
living  in  a  world  of  which  he  alone  possessed  the  key. 
What  his  philosophy  seems  to  have  been  most  like  is 
that  of  Paracelsus  or  Cardan;  and  much  of  the  spirit  of 
the  older  alchemy  still  hangs  about  it,  with  its  confidence  20 
in  short  cuts  and  odd  byways  to  knowledge.     To  him 
philosophy  was  to  be  something  giving  strange  swiftness 
and  double  sight,  divining  the  sources  of  springs  be- 
neath the  earth  or  of  expression  beneath  the  human 
countenance,  clairvoyant  of  occult  gifts  in  common  or  25 
uncommon  things,  in  the  reed  at  the  brookside,  or  the 
star  which  draws  near  to  us  but  once  in  a  century.    How, 
in  this  way,  the  clear  purpose  was  overclouded,  the  fine 
chaser's  hand  perplexed,  we  but  dimly  see;  the  mystery 
which  at  no  point  quite  lifts  from  Leonardo's  life  is  30 


350  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

deepest  here.    But  it  is  certain  that  at  one  period  of  his 
life  he  had  almost  ceased  to  be  an  artist. 

The  year  1483 — the  year  of  the  birth  of  Raffaelle  and 
the  thirty-first  of  Leonardo's  life — is  fixed  as  the  date 

5  of  his  visit  to  Milan  by  the  letter  in  which  he  recom- 
mends himself  to  Ludovico  Sforza,  and  offers  to  tell 
him,  for  a  price,  strange  secrets  in  the  art  of  war.  It 
was  that  Sforza  who  murdered  his  young  nephew  by 
slow  poison,  yet  was  so  susceptible  of  religious  impres- 

io  sions  that  he  blended  mere  earthly  passions  with  a  sort 
of  religious  sentimentalism,  and  who  took  for  his  device 
the  mulberry  tree — symbol,  in  its  long  delay  and  sud- 
den yielding  of  flowers  and  fruit  together,  of  a  wisdom 
which  economizes  all  forces  for  an  opportunity  of  sud- 

15  den  and  sure  effect.  The  fame  of  Leonardo  had  gone 
before  him,  and  he  was  to  model  a  colossal  statue 
of  Francesco,  the  first  Duke  of  Milan.  As  for  Leon- 
ardo himself,  he  came  not  as  an  artist  at  all,  or  care- 
ful of  the  fame  of  one;  but  as  a  player  on  the  harp,  a 

20  strange  harp  of  silver  of  his  own  construction,  shaped  in 
some  curious  likeness  to  a  horse's  skull.  The  capricious 
spirit  of  Ludovico  was  susceptible  also  of  the  charm  of 
music,  and  Leonardo's  nature  had  a  kind  of  spell  in  it. 
Fascination  is  always  the  word  descriptive  of  him.    No 

25  portrait  of  his  youth  remains;  but  all  tends  to  make  us  be- 
lieve that  up  to  this  time  some  charm  of  voice  and  aspect, 
strong  enough  to  balance  the  disadvantage  of  his  birth, 
had  played  about  him.  His  physical  strength  was  great; 
it  was  said  that  he  could  bend  a  horseshoe  like  a  coil  of 

30  lead. 


LEONARDO   DA   VINCI  35 1 

The  Duomo,  the  work  of  artists  from  beyond  the  Alps, 
so  fantastic  to  the  eye  of  a  Florentine  used  to  the  mellow, 
unbroken  surfaces  of  Giotto  and  Arnolfo,  was  then  in  all 
its  freshness;  and  below,  in  the  streets  of  Milan,  moved  a 
people  as  fantastic,  changeful,  and  dreamlike.  To  Leon-  5 
ardo  least  of  all  men  could  there  be  anything  poisonous 
in  the  exotic  flowers  of  sentiment  which  grew  there.  It 
was  a  life  of  brilliant  sins  and  exquisite  amusements. 
Leonardo  became  a  celebrated  designer  of  pageants :  and 
it  suited  the  quality  of  his  genius,  composed  in  almost  10 
equal  parts  of  curiosity  and  the  desire  of  beauty,  to  take 
things  as  they  came. 

Curiosity  and  the  desire  of  beauty — these  are  the  two 
elementary  forces  in  Leonardo's  genius;  curiosity  often 
in  conflict  with  the  desire  of  beauty,  but  generating,  in  15 
union  with  it,  a  type  of  subtle  and  curious  grace. 

The  movement  of  the  fifteenth  century  was  twofold: 
partly  the  Renaissance,  partly  also  the  coming  of  what 
is  called  the  "modern  spirit,"  with  its  realism,  its  appeal 
to  experience :  it  comprehended  a  return  to  antiquity,  and  20 
a  return  to  nature.  Raffaelle  represents  the  return  to 
antiquity,  and  Leonardo  the  return  to  nature.  In  this 
return  to  nature,  he  was  seeking  to  satisfy  a  boundless 
curiosity  by  her  perpetual  surprises,  a  microscopic  sense 
of  finish  by  her  finesse,  or  delicacy  of  operation,  that  25 
subtilitas  naturae  which  Bacon  notices.  So  we  find  him 
often  in  intimate  relations  with  men  of  science, — with 
Fra  Luca  Paccioli  the  mathematician,  and  the  anato- 
mist Marc  Antonio  della  Torre.  His  observations  and 
experiments  fill  thirteen  volumes  of  manuscript;  and  30 


352  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

those  who  can  judge  describe  him  as  anticipating  long 
before,  by  rapid  intuition,  the  later  ideas  of  science. 
He  explained  the  obscure  light  of  the  unilluminated  part 
of  the  moon,  knew  that  the  sea  had  once  covered  the 
5  mountains  which  contain  shells,  and  the  gathering  of 
the  equatorial  waters  above  the  polar. 

He  who  thus  penetrated  into  the  most  secret  parts  of 
nature  preferred  always  the  more  to  the  less  remote, 
what,  seeming  exceptional,  was  an  instance  of  law  more 

10  refined,  the  construction  about  things  of  a  peculiar  at- 
mosphere and  mixed  lights.  He  paints  flowers  with  such 
curious  felicity  that  different  writers  have  attributed 
to  him  a  fondness  for  particular  flowers,  as  Clement  the 
cyclamen,  and  Rio  the  jasmin;  while,  at  Venice,  there 

15  is  a  stray  leaf  from  his  portfolio  dotted  all  over  with 
studies  of  violets  and  the  wild  rose.  In  him  first  appears 
the  taste  for  what  is  bizarre  or  recherche  in  landscapes; 
hollow  places  full  of  the  green  shadow  of  bituminous 
rocks,  ridged  reefs  of  trap  rock  which  cut  the  water  into 

20  quaint  sheets  of  light — their  exact  antitype  is  in  our  own 
western  seas;  all  the  solemn  effects  of  moving  water; 
you  may  follow  it  springing  from  its  distant  source 
among  the  rocks  on  the  heath  of  the  Madonna  of  the 
Balances,  passing,  as  a  little  fall,  into  the  treacherous  calm 

25  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Lake,  next,  as  a  goodly  river, 
below  the  cliffs  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Rocks,  washing 
the  white  walls  of  its  distant  villages,  stealing  out  in  a 
network  of  divided  streams  in  La  Gioconda  to  the  sea- 
shore of  the  Saint  Anne — that  delicate  place,  where  the 

30  wind  passes  like  the  hand  of  some  fine  etcher  over  the 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI  353 

surface,  and  the  untorn  shells  are  lying  thick  upon  the 
sand,  and  the  tops  of  the  rocks,  to  which  the  waves 
never  rise,  are  green  with  grass,  grown  fine  as  hair.  It  is 
the  landscape,  not  of  dreams  or  of  fancy,  but  of  places 
far  withdrawn,  and  hours  selected  from  a  thousand  with  5 
a  miracle  of  finesse.  Through  Leonardo's  strange  veil  of 
sight  things  reach  him  so;  in  no  ordinary  night  or  day,  but 
as  in  faint  light  of  eclipse,  or  in  some  brief  interval  of 
falling  rain  at  daybreak,  or  through  deep  water. 

And  not  into  nature  only;  but  he  plunged  also  into  10 
human  personality,  and  became  above  all  a  painter  of 
portraits;  faces  of  a  modeling  more  skillful  than  has  been 
seen   before   or  since,   embodied  with  a  reality  which 
almost  amounts  to  illusion,  on  dark  air.    To  take  a  char- 
acter as  it  was,  and  delicately  sound  its  stops,  suited  one  1 5 
so  curious  in  observation,  curious  in  invention.     So  he 
painted  the  portraits  of  Ludovico's  mistresses,  Lucretia 
Crivelli  and  Cecilia  Galerani  the  poetess,  of  Ludovico 
himself,  and  the  Duchess  Beatrice.     The  portrait  of 
Cecilia  Galerani  is  lost,  but  that  of  Lucretia  Crivelli  20 
has  been  identified  with  La  Belle  Feroniere  of  the  Louvre, 
and  Ludovico's  pale,  anxious  face  still  remains  in  the 
Ambrosian  library.     Opposite  is  the  portrait  of  Beatrice 
d'Este,  in  whom  Leonardo  seems  to  have  caught  some 
presentiment    of  early  death,  painting  her  precise  and  25 
grave,  full  of    the    refinement    of    the   dead,   in    sad 
earth-colored  raiment,  set  with  pale  stones. 

Sometimes  this  curiosity  came  in  conflict  with  the 
desire  of  beauty;  it  tended  to  make  him  go  too  far  be- 
low that  outside  of  things  in  which  art  begins  and  ends.  30 
Prose — 23 


354  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

This  struggle  between  the  reason  and  its  ideas,  and  the 
senses,  the  desire  of  beauty,  is  the  key  to  Leonardo's 
life  at  Milan — his  restlessness,  his  endless  retouchings, 
his  odd  experiments  with  color.  How  much  must  he 
5  leave  unfinished,  how  much  recommence!  His  problem 
was  the  transmutation  of  ideas  into  images.  What  he 
had  attained  so  far  had  been  the  mastery  of  that  earlier 
Florentine  style,  with  its  naive  and  limited  sensuousness. 
Now  he  was  to  entertain  in  this  narrow  medium  those 

10  divinations  of  a  humanity  too  wide  for  it,  that  larger 
vision  of  the  opening  world,  which  is  only  not  too  much 
for  the  great,  irregular  art  of  Shakespeare;  and  every- 
where the  effort  is  visible  in  the  work  of  his  hands.  This 
agitation,  this  perpetual  delay,  give  him  an  air  of  weari- 

15  ness  and  ennui.  To  others  he  seems  to  be  aiming  at  an 
impossible  effect,  to  do  something  that  art,  that  paint- 
ing, can  never  do.  Often  the  expression  of  physical 
beauty  at  this  or  that  point  seems  strained  and  marred 
in  the  effort,  as  in  those  heavy  German  foreheads — too 

20  German  and  heavy  for  perfect  beauty. 

For  there  was  a  touch  of  Germany  in  that  genius 
which,  as  Goethe  said,  had  "thought  itself  weary" — 
miide  sich  gedacht.  What  an  anticipation  of  modern  Ger- 
many, for  instance,  in  that  debate  on  the  question  whether 

25  sculpture  or  painting  is  the  nobler  art.1  But  there  is 
this  difference  between  him  and  the  German,  that,  with 
all  that  curious  science,  the  German  would  have  thought 
nothing  more  was  needed;  and  the  name  of  Goethe  him- 

1  How  princely,  how  characteristic  of   Leonardo,  the  answer, 
30  Quanto  piu,  un' arte  porta  seco  fatica  di  corpo,  tanto  piii  e  vile! 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI  355 

self  reminds  one  how  great  for  the  artist  may  be  the 
danger  of  over-much  science;  how  Goethe,  who,  in  the 
Elective  Affinities  and  the  first  part  of  Faust,  does  trans- 
mute ideas  into  images,  who  wrought  many  such  trans- 
mutations, did  not  invariably  find  the  spell-word,  and  5 
in  the  second  part  of  Faust  presents  us  with  a  mass  of 
science  which  has  almost  no  artistic  character  at  all.  But 
Leonardo  will  never  work  till  the  happy  moment  comes— 
that  moment  of  bien-etre,  which  to  imaginative  men  is 
a  moment  of  invention.  On  this  moment  he  waits;  10 
other  moments  are  but  a  preparation,  or  aftertaste  of 
it.  Few  men  distinguish  between  them  as  jealously  as 
he  did.  Hence,  so  many  flaws  even  in  the  choicest  work. 
But  for  Leonardo  the  distinction  is  absolute,  and,  in 
the  moment  of  bien-etre,  the  alchemy  complete:  the  idea  15 
is  stricken  into  color  and  imagery:  a  cloudy  mysticism 
is  refined  to  a  subdued  and  graceful  mystery,  and  paint- 
ing pleases  the  eye  while  it  satisfies  the  soul. 

This  curious  beauty  is  seen  above  all  in  his  drawings, 
and  in  these  chiefly  in  the  abstract  grace  of  the  bounding  20 
lines.  Let  us  take  some  of  these  drawings,  and  pause 
over  them  awhile;  and,  first,  one  of  those  at  Florence — 
the  heads  of  a  woman  and -a  little  child,  set  side  by  side, 
but  each  in  its  own  separate  frame.  First  of  all,  there 
is  much  pathos  in  the  reappearance  in  the  fuller  curves  25 
of  the  face  of  the  child,  of  the  sharper,  more  chastened 
lines  of  the  worn  and  older  face,  which  leaves  no  doubt 
that  the  heads  are  those  of  a  little  child  and  its  mother. 
A  feeling  for  maternity  is  indeed  always  characteristic 
of  Leonardo;  and  this  feeling  is  further  indicated  here  30 


356  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

by  the  half-humorous  pathos  of  the  diminutive,  rounded 
shoulders  of  the  child.  You  may  note  a  like  pathetic 
power  in  drawings  of  a  young  man  seated  in  a  stooping 
posture,  his  face  in  his  hands,  as  in  sorrow;  of  a  slave 

5  sitting  in  an  uneasy  inclined  posture,  in  some  brief  inter- 
val of  rest;  of  a  small  Madonna  and  Child,  peeping  side- 
ways in  half-reassured  terror,  as  a  mighty  griffin  with 
bat-like  wings,  one  of  Leonardo's  finest  inventions,  de- 
scends suddenly  from  the  air  to  snatch  up  a  lion  wander- 

10  ing  near  them.  But  note  in  these,  as  that  which  espec- 
ially belongs  to  art,  the  contour  of  the  young  man's  hair, 
the  poise  of  the  slave's  arm  above  his  head,  and  the  curves 
of  the  head  of  the  child,  following  the  little  skull  within, 
thin  and  fine  as  some  seashell  worn  by  the  wind. 

15  Take  again  another  head,  still  more  full  of  sentiment, 
but  of  a  different  kind,  a  little  drawing  in  red  chalk  which 
every  one  remembers  who  has  examined  at  all  carefully 
the  drawings  by  old  masters  at  the  Louvre.  It  is  a  face  of 
doubtful  sex,  set  in  the  shadow  of  its  own  hair,  the  cheek- 

20  line  in  high  light  against  it,  with  something  voluptuous 
and  full  in  the  eyelids  and  the  lips.  Another  drawing 
might  pass  for  the  same  face  in  childhood,  with  parched 
and  feverish  lips,  but  with  much  sweetness  in  the  loose, 
short-waisted  childish  dress,  with  necklace  and  bulla,  and 

25  in  the  daintily  bound  hair.  We  might  take  the  thread  of 
suggestion  which  these  two  drawings  offer,  when  thus  set 
side  by  side,  and,  following  it  through  the  drawings  at 
Florence,  Venice,  and  Milan,  construct  a  sort  of  series, 
illustrating  better  than  anything  else  Leonardo's  type  of 

30  womanly  beauty.    Daughters  of  Herodias,  with  their  fan- 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI  357 

tastic  headdresses  knotted  and  folded  so  strangely  to 
leave  the  dainty  oval  of  the  face  disengaged,  they  are  not 
of  the  Christian  family,  or  of  Raffaelle's.  They  are  the 
clairvoyants,  through  whom,  as  through  delicate  instru- 
ments, one  becomes  aware  of  the  subtler  forces  of  nature,  5 
and  the  modes  of  their  action,  all  that  is  magnetic  in  it,  all 
those  finer  conditions  wherein  material  things  rise  to  that 
subtlety  of  operation  which  constitutes  them  spiritual, 
where  only  the  finer  nerve  and  the  keener  touch  can 
follow:  it  is  as  if  in  certain  revealing  instances  we  actually  10 
saw  them  at  their  work  on  human  flesh.  Nervous, 
electric,  faint  always  with  some  inexplicable  faintness, 
they  seem  to  be  subject  to  exceptional  conditions,  to 
feel  powers  at  work  in  the  common  air  unfelt  by  others, 
to  become,  as  it  were,  receptacles  of  them,  and  pass  15 
them  on  to  us  in  a  chain  of  secret  influences. 

But  among  the  more  youthful  heads  there  is  one  at 
Florence  which  Love  chooses  for  its  own — the  head  of 
a  young  man,  which  may  well  be  the  likeness  of  Andrea 
Salaino,  beloved  of  Leonardo  for  his  curled  and  waving  20 
hair — belli  capelli  ricci  e  inanellati — and  afterwards  his 
favorite  pupil  and  servant.  Of  all  the  interests  in 
living  men  and  women  which  may  have  filled  his  life  at 
Milan,  this  attachment  alone  is  recorded;  and  in  return 
Salaino  identified  himself  so  entirely  with  Leonardo,  that  25 
the  picture  of  Saint  Anne,  in  the  Louvre,  has  been  at- 
tributed to  him.  It  illustrates  Leonardo's  usual  choice 
of  pupils,  men  of  some  natural  charm  of  person  or  inter- 
course like  Salaino,  or  men  of  birth  and  princely  habits 
of  life  like  Francesco   Melzi — men   with  just   enough  30 


358  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

genius  to  be  capable  of  initiation  into  his  secret,  for  the 
sake  of  which  they  were  ready  to  efface  their  own  in- 
dividuality. Among  them,  retiring  often  to  the  villa  of 
the  Melzi  at  Canonica  al  Vaprio,  he  worked  at  his  fugi- 
5  tive  manuscripts  and  sketches,  working  for  the  present 
hour,  and  for  a  few  only,  perhaps  chiefly  for  himself. 
Other  artists  have  been  as  careless  of  present  or  future 
applause,  in  self-forgetfulness,  or  because  they  set  moral 
or  political  ends  above  the  ends  of  art;  but  in  him  this  sol- 

io  itary  culture  of  beauty  seems  to  have  hung  upon  a  kind  of 
self-love,  and  a  carelessness  in  the  work  of  art  of  all  but 
art  itself.  Out  of  the  secret  places  of  a  unique  tempera- 
ment he  brought  strange  blossoms  and  fruits  hitherto 
unknown;  and  for  him,  the  novel  impression  conveyed, 

15  the  exquisite  effect  woven,  counted  as  an  end  in  itself — a 
perfect  end. 

And  these  pupils  of  his  acquired  his  manner  so  thor- 
oughly, that  though  the  number  of  Leonardo's  authentic 
works  is  very  small  indeed,  there  is  a  multitude  of  other 

20  men's  pictures  through  which  we  undoubtedly  see  him, 
and  come  very  near  to  his  genius.  Sometimes,  as  in  the 
little  picture  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Balances,  in  which, 
from  the  bosom  of  His  mother,  Christ  weighs  the  pebbles 
of  the  brook  against  the  sins  of  men,  we  have  a  hand, 

25  rough  enough  by  contrast,  working  upon  some  fine  hint 
or  sketch  of  his.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  subjects  of  the 
Daughter  of  Herodias  and  the  Head  of  John  the  Baptist, 
the  lost  originals  have  been  reechoed  and  varied  upon 
again  and  again  by  Luini  and  others.    At  other  times  the 

30  original  remains,  but  has  been  a  mere  theme  or  motive,  a 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI  359 

type  of  which  the  accessories  might  be  modified  or 
changed;  and  these  variations  have  but  brought  out  the 
more  the  purpose,  or  expression  of  the  original.  It  is  so 
with  the  so-called  Saint  John  the  Baptist  of  the  Louvre — 
one  of  the  few  naked  figures  Leonardo  painted — whose  5 
delicate  brown  flesh  and  woman's  hair  no  one  would  go 
out  into  the  wilderness  to  seek,  and  whose  treacherous 
smile  would  have  us  understand  something  far  beyond  the 
outward  gesture  or  circumstance.  But  the  long,  reedlike 
cross  in  the  hand,  which  suggests  Saint  John  the  Baptist,  10 
becomes  faint  in  a  copy  at  the  Ambrosian  Library  and 
disappears  altogether  in  another,  in  the  Palazzo  Rosso  at 
Genoa.  Returning  from  the  last  to  the  original,  we  are 
no  longer  surprised  by  Saint  John's  strange  likeness  to 
the  Bacchus  which  hangs  near  it,  which  set  Theophile  15 
Gautier  thinking  of  Heine's  notion  of  decayed  gods,  who, 
to  maintain  themselves,  after  the  fall  of  paganism,  took 
employment  in  the  new  religion.  We  recognize  one  of 
those  symbolical  inventions  in  which  the  ostensible  sub- 
ject is  used,  not  as  matter  for  definite  pictorial  realization,  20 
but  as  the  starting-point  of  a  train  of  sentiment,  as  subtle 
and  vague  as  a  piece  of  music.  No  one  ever  ruled  over 
his  subject  more  entirely  than  Leonardo,  or  bent  it  more 
dexterously  to  purely  artistic  ends.  And  so  it  comes  to 
pass  that  though  he  handles  sacred  subjects  continually,  25 
he  is  the  most  profane  of  painters;  the  given  person  or 
subject,  Saint  John  in  the  Desert,  or  the  Virgin  on  the 
knees  of  Saint  Anne,  is  often  merely  the  pretext  for  a  kind 
of  work  which  carries  one  quite  out  of  the  range  of  its 
conventional  associations.  3° 


360  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

About  the  Last  Supper,  its  decay  and  restorations,  a 
whole  literature  has  risen  up,  Goethe's  pensive  sketch  of 
its  sad  fortunes  being  far  the  best.  The  death  in  child- 
birth of  the  Duchess  Beatrice  was  followed  in  Ludovico 
5  by  one  of  those  paroxysms  of  religious  feeling  which  in 
him  were  constitutional.  The  low,  gloomy  Dominican 
church  of  Saint  Mary  0}  the  Graces  had  been  the  favorite 
shrine  of  Beatrice.  She  had  spent  her  last  days  there, 
full  of  sinister  presentiments;  at  last  it  had  been  almost 

10  necessary  to  remove  her  from  it  by  force;  and  now  it  was 
here  that  mass  was  said  a  hundred  times  a  day  for  her  re- 
pose. On  the  damp  wall  of  the  refectory,  oozing  with 
mineral  salts,  Leonardo  painted  the  Last  Supper.  A  hun- 
dred anecdotes  were  told  about  it,  his  retouchings  and 

15  delays.  They  show  him  refusing  to  work  except  at  the 
moment  of  invention,  scornful  of  whoever  thought  that 
art  was  a  work  of  mere  industry  and  rule,  often  coming 
the  whole  length  of  Milan  to  give  a  single  touch.  He 
painted  it,  not  in  fresco,  where  all  must  be  impromptu, 

20  but  in  oils,  the  new  method  which  he  had  been  one  of  the 
first  to  welcome,  because  it  allowed  of  so  many  after- 
thoughts, so  refined  a  working  out  of  perfection.  It 
turned  out  that  on  a  plastered  wall  no  process  could  have 
been  less  durable.     Within  fifty  years  it  had  fallen  into 

25  decay.  And  now  we  have  to  turn  back  to  Leonardo's  own 
studies,  above  all  to  one  drawing  of  the  central  head  at 
the  Brera,  which,  in  a  union  of  tenderness  and  severity  in 
the  face  lines,  reminds  one  of  the  monumental  work  of 
Mino  da  Fiesole,  to  trace  it  as  it  was. 

30      It  was  another  effort  to  lift  a  given  subject  out  of  the 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI  36 1 

range  of  its  conventional  associations.  Strange,  after 
all  the  misrepresentations  of  the  middle  age,  was  the 
effort  to  see  it,  not  as  the  pale  Host  of  the  altar,  but  as  one 
taking  leave  of  his  friends.  Five  years  afterwards 
the  young  Raffaelle,  at  Florence,  painted  it  with  sweet  5 
and  solemn  effect  in  the  refectory  of  Saint  Onofrio;  but 
still  with  all  the  mystical  unreality  of  the  school  of 
Perugino.  Vasari  pretends  that  the  central  head  was 
never  finished;  but  finished  or  unfinished,  or  owing 
part  of  its  effect  to  a  mellowing  decay,  this  central  head  10 
does  but  consummate  the  sentiment  of  the  whole  com- 
pany— ghosts  through  which  you  see  the  wall,  faint  as 
the  shadows  of  the  leaves  upon  the  wall  on  autumn 
afternoons:  this  figure  is  but  the  faintest,  most  spectral 
of  them  all.  It  is  the  image  of  what  the  history  it  sym-  15 
bolizes  has  more  and  more  become  for  the  world,  paler 
and  paler  as  it  recedes  into  the  distance.  Criticism  came 
with  its  appeal  from  mystical  unrealities  to  originals,  and 
restored  no  lifelike  reality  but  these  transparent  shadows, 
spirits  which  have  not  flesh  and  bones.  20 

The  Last  Supper  was  finished  in  1497;  in  1498  the 
French  entered  Milan,  and  whether  or  not  the  Gascon 
bowman  used  it  as  a  mark  for  their  arrows,  the  model  of 
Francesco  Sforza  certainly  did  not  survive.  What,  in 
that  age,  such  work  was  capable  of  being — of  what  nobil-  25 
ity,  amid  what  racy  truthfulness  to  fact — we  may  judge 
from  the  bronze  statue  of  Bartolomeo  Colleoni  on  horse- 
back, modeled  by  Leonardo's  master,  Verrocchio  (he 
died  of  grief,  it  was  said,  because,  the  mold  accidentally 
failing,  he  was  unable  himself  to  complete  it),  still  stand-  30 


362  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

ing  in  the  piazza  of  Saint  John  and  Saint  Paul  at  Venice. 
Some  traces  of  the  thing  may  remain  in  certain  o1*  Leon- 
ardo's drawings,  and  also,  perhaps,  by  a  singular  circum- 
stance, in  a  far-off  town  of  France.  For  Ludovico 
5  became  a  prisoner,  and  ended  his  days  at  Loches  in 
Touraine; — allowed  at  last,  it  is  said,  to  breathe  fresher 
air  for  awhile  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  a  high  tower  there, 
after  many  years  of  captivity  in  the  dungeons  below, 
where  all  seems  sick  with  barbarous  feudal  memories,  and 

10  where  his  prison  is  still  shown,  its  walls  covered  with 
strange  painted  arabesques,  ascribed  by  tradition  to  his 
hand,  amused  a  little,  in  this  way,  through  the  tedious 
years: — vast  helmets  and  faces  and  pieces  of  armor, 
among  which,  in  great  letters,  the  motto  Injelix  Stun  is 

15  woven  in  and  out,  and  in  which,  perhaps,  it  is  not  too 
fanciful  to  see  the  fruit  of  a  wistful  after-dreaming  over 
all  those  experiments  with  Leonardo  on  the  armed  figure 
of  the  great  duke,  that  had  occupied  the  two  so  often 
during  the  days  of  his  good  fortune  at  Milan. 

20  The  remaining  years  of  Leonardo's  life  are  more  or  less 
years  of  wandering.  From  his  brilliant  life  at  court  he  had 
saved  nothing,  and  he  returned  to  Florence  a  poor  man. 
Perhaps  necessity  kept  his  spirit  excited:  the  next  four 
years  are  one  prolonged  rapture  or  ecstasy  of  invention. 

25  He  painted  the  pictures  of  the  Louvre,  his  most  authentic 
works,  which  came  there  straight  from  the  cabinet  of 
Francis  the  First,  at  Fontainebleau.  One  picture  of  his, 
the  Saint  Anne — not  the  Saint  Anne  of  the  Louvre,  but 
a  mere  cartoon,  now  in  London — revived  for  a  moment 

30  a  sort  of  appreciation  more  common  in  an  earlier  time, 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI  363 

when  good  pictures  had  still  seemed  miraculous;  and  for 
two  days  a  crowd  of  people  of  all  qualities  passed  in  naive 
excitement  through  the  chamber  where  it  hung,  and  gave 
Leonardo  a  taste  of  Cimabue's  triumph.      But  his  work 
was  less  with  the  saints  than  with  the  living  women  of    5 
Florence;  for  he  lived  still  in  the  polished  society  that  he 
loved,  and  in  the  houses  of  Florence,  left  perhaps  a  little 
subject  to  light  thoughts  by  the  death  of  Savonarola — 
the  latest  gossip  (1869)  is  of  an  undraped  Monna  Lisa, 
found  in  some  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  late  Orleans  10 
collection — he    saw    Ginevra  di  Benci,  and   Lisa,  the 
young  third  wife  of  Francesco  del  Giocondo.     As  we 
have  seen  him   using  incidents  of  sacred  story  not  for 
their  own  sake,  or  as  mere  subjects  for  pictorial  reali- 
zation, but  as  a  symbolical  language  for  fancies  all  his  15 
own,  so  now  he  found  a  vent  for  his  thoughts  in  taking 
one  of  these  languid  women,  and  raising  her,  as  Leda 
or  Pomona,  Modesty  or  Vanity,  to  the  seventh  heaven 
of  symbolical  expression. 

La  Gioconda  is,  in  the  truest  sense,  Leonardo's  20 
masterpiece,  the  revealing  instance  of  his  mode  of 
thought  and  work.  In  suggestiveness,  only  the  Melan- 
cholia of  Durer  is  comparable  to  it;  and  no  crude  sym- 
bolism disturbs  the  effect  of  its  subdued  and  graceful 
mystery.  We  all  know  the  face  and  hands  of  the  figure,  25 
set  in  its  marble  chair,  in  that  cirque  of  fantastic  rocks, 
as  in  some  faint  light  under  sea.  Perhaps  of  all  ancient 
pictures  time  has  chilled  it  least.1     As  often  happens 

1  Yet  for  Vasari  there  was  some  further  magic  of  crimson  in 
the  lips  and  cheeks,  lost  for  us.  3° 


364  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

with  works  in  which  invention  seems  to  reach  its  limit, 
there  is  an  element  in  it  given  to,  not  invented  by,  the 
master.  In  that  inestimable  folio  of  drawings,  once  in 
the  possession  of  Vasari,  were  certain  designs  by  Ver- 
5  rocchio,  faces  of  such  impressive  beauty  that  Leonardo 
in  his  boyhood  copied  them  many  times.  It  is  hard 
not  to  connect  with  these  designs  of  the  elder,  by-past 
master,  as  with  its  germinal  principle,  the  unfathom- 
able smile,  always  with  a  touch  of  something  sinister 

10  in  it,  which  plays  over  all  Leonardo's  work.  Besides, 
the  picture  is  a  portrait.  From  childhood  we  see  this 
image  defining  itself  on  the  fabric  of  his  dreams;  and 
but  for  express  historical  testimony,  we  might  fancy 
that  this  was  but  his  ideal  lady,  embodied  and  beheld 

15  at  last.  What  was  the  relationship  of  a  living  Floren- 
tine to  this  creature  of  his  thought?  By  means  of 
what  strange  affinities  had  the  person  and  the  dream 
grown  up  thus  apart,  and  yet  so  closely  together  ?  Pres- 
ent from  the  first  incorporeally  in  Leonardo's  thought, 

20  dimly  traced  in  the  designs  of  Verrocchio,  she  is  found 
present  at  last  in  77  Giocondo's  house.  That  there  is 
much  of  mere  portraiture  in  the  picture  is  attested  by  the 
legend  that  by  artificial  means,  the  presence  of  mimes 
and  flute  players,  that  subtle  expression  was  protracted 

25  on    the    face.      Again,  was    it    in    four   years  and  by 

renewed    labor    never    really   completed,    or    in    four 

months  and  as  by  stroke  of  magic,  that  the  image  was 

projected  ? 

The  presence  that  thus  rose  so  strangely  beside  the 

30  waters,  is  expressive  of  what  in  the  ways  of  a  thousand 


LEONARDO   DA   VINCI  365 

years  men  had  come  to  desire.  Hers  is  the  head  upon 
which  all  "  the  ends  of  the  world  are  come,"  and  the  eye- 
lids are  a  little  weary.  It  is  a  beauty  wrought  out  from 
within  upon  the  flesh,  the  deposit,  little  cell  by  cell,  of 
strange  thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries  and  exquisite  5 
passions.  Set  it  for  a  moment  beside  one  of  those 
white  Greek  goddesses  or  beautiful  women  of  antiquity, 
and  how  would  they  be  troubled  by  this  beauty,  into 
which  the  soul  with  all  its  maladies  has  passed!  All 
the  thoughts  and  experience  of  the  world  have  etched  10 
and  molded  there,  in  that  which  they  have  of  power 
to  refine  and  make  expressive  the  outward  form,  the 
animalism  of  Greece,  the  lust  of  Rome,  the  reverie  of 
the  middle  age  with  its  spiritual  ambition  and  imagi- 
native loves,  the  return  of  the  Pagan  world,  the  sins  of  15 
the  Borgias.  She  is  older  than  the  rocks  among  which 
she  sits;  like  the  vampire,  she  has  been  dead  many 
times,  and  learned  the  secrets  of  the  grave;  and  has 
been  a  diver  in  deep  seas,  and  keeps  their  fallen  day 
about  her;  and  trafficked  for  strange  webs  with  Eastern  20 
merchants:  and,  as  Leda,  was  the  mother  of  Helen  of 
Troy,  and,  as  Saint  Anne,  the  mother  of  Mary;  and  all 
this  has  been  to  her  but  as  the  sound  of  lyres  and  flutes, 
and  lives  only  in  the  delicacy  with  which  it  has  molded 
the  changing  lineaments,  and  tinged  the  eyelids  and  the  25 
hands.  The  fancy  of  a  perpetual  life,  sweeping  to- 
gether ten  thousand  experiences,  is  an  old  one;  and 
modern  thought  has  conceived  the  idea  of  humanity 
as  wrought  upon  by,  and  summing  up  in  itself,  all 
modes  of  thought  and  life.     Certainly  Lady  Lisa  might  30 


366  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

stand  as  the  embodiment  of  the  old  fancy,  the  symbol 
of  the  modern  idea. 

During  these  years  at  Florence  Leonardo's  history 
is  the  history  of  his  art;  he  himself  is  lost  in  the  bright 
5  cloud  of  it.  The  outward  history  begins  again  in  1502, 
with  a  wild  journey  through  central  Italy,  which  he 
makes  as  the  chief  engineer  of  Caesar  Borgia.  The 
biographer,  putting  together  the  stray  jottings  of  his 
manuscripts,  may  follow  him  through  every  day  of  it, 

10  up  the  strange  tower  of  Siena,  which  looks  towards 
Rome,  elastic  like  a  bent  bow,  down  to  the  seashore  at 
Piombino,  each  place  appearing  as  fitfully  as  in  a  fever 
dream. 

One  other  great  work  was  left  for  him  to  do,  a  work 

15  all  trace  of  which  soon  vanished,  The  Battle  of  the  Stand- 
ard, in  which  he  had  Michelangelo  for  his  rival.  The 
citizens  of  Florence,  desiring  to  decorate  the  walls  of 
the  great  council  chamber,  had  offered  the  work  for 
competition,  and  any  subject  might  be  chosen  from  the 

20  Florentine  wars  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Michelangelo 
chose  for  his  cartoon  an  incident  of  the  war  with  Pisa, 
in  which  the  Florentine  soldiers,  bathing  in  the  Arno, 
are  surprised  by  the  sound  of  trumpets,  and  run  to  arms. 
His  design  has  reached  us  only  in  an  old  engraving, 

25  which  perhaps  helps  us  less  than  what  we  remember 
of  the  background  of  his  Holy  Family  in  the  Uffizii 
to  imagine  in  what  superhuman  form,  such  as  might 
have  beguiled  the  heart  of  an  earlier  world,  those  figures 
may  have  risen  from  the  water.     Leonardo  chose  an 

30  incident  from  the  battle  of  Anghiari,  in  which  two  par- 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI  367 

ties  of  soldiers  fight  for  a  standard.  Like  Michelangelo's, 
his  cartoon  is  lost,  and  has  come  to  us  only  in  sketches, 
and  in  a  fragment  of  Rubens.  Through  the  accounts 
given  we  may  discern  some  lust  of  terrible  things  in  it, 
so  that  even  the  horses  tore  each  other  with  their  teeth;  5 
and  yet  one  fragment  of  it,  in  a  drawing  of  his  at  Florence, 
is  far  different — a  waving  field  of  lovely  armour,  the 
chased  edgings  running  like  lines  of  sunlight  from  side 
to  side.  Michelangelo  was  twenty-seven  years  old; 
Leonardo  more  than  fifty;  and  Raffaelle,  then  nineteen  10 
years  old,  visiting  Florence  for  the  first  time,  came  and 
watched  them  as  they  worked. 

We  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  again,  at  Rome  in  1514, 
surrounded  by  his  mirrors  and  vials  and  furnaces,  making 
strange  toys  that  seemed  alive  of  wax  and  quicksilver.  15 
The  hesitation  which  had  haunted  him  all  through  life, 
and  made  him  like  one  under  a  spell,  was  upon  him  now 
with"  double  force.  No  one  had  ever  carried  political 
indifferentism  farther;  it  had  always  been  his  philosophy 
to  "fly  before  the  storm;"  he  is  for  the  Sforzas,  or  20 
against  them,  as  the  tide  of  their  fortune  turns.  Yet  now 
in  the  political  society  of  Rome,  he  came  to  be  suspected 
of  concealed  French  sympathies.  It  paralyzed  him  to 
find  himself  among  enemies;  and  he  turned  wholly  to 
France,  which  had  long  courted  him.  25 

France  was  about  to  become  an  Italy  more  Italian 
than  Italy  itself.  Francis  the  First,  like  Lewis  the 
Twelfth  before  him,  was  attracted  by  the  -finesse  of 
Leonardo's  work;  La  Gioconda  was  already  in  his  cabi- 
net, and  he  offered  Leonardo  the  little  Chateau  de  Clou,  30 


3^8  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

with  its  vineyards  and  meadows,  in  the  pleasant  valley 
of  the  Masse,  just  outside  the  walls  of  the  town  of  Ara- 
boise,  where,  especially  in  the  hunting  season,  the  court 
then  frequently  resided.  A  Monsieur  Lyonard,  peinteur 
5  du  Roy  pour  Amboyse — so  the  letter  of  Francis  the  First 
is  headed.  It  opens  a  prospect,  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing in  the  history  of  art,  where,  under  a  strange  mixture 
of  lights,  Italian  art  dies  away  as  a  French  exotic. 

Two  questions  remain,  after  much  busy  antiquarian- 

10  ism,  concerning  Leonardo's  death — the  question  of  the 
precise  form  of  his  religion,  and  the  question  whether 
Francis  the  First  was  present  at  the  time.  They  are  of 
about  equally  little  importance  in  the  estimate  of  Leon- 
ardo's genius.    The  directions  in  his  will  about  the  thirty 

15  masses  and  the  great  candles  for  the  church  of  Saint  Flor- 
entin  are  things  of  course,  their  real  purpose  being  im- 
mediate and  practical;  and  on  no  theory  of  religion  could 
these  hurried  offices  be  of  much  consequence.  We  for- 
get them  in  speculating  how  one  who  had  been  always  so 

20  desirous  of  beauty,  but  desired  it  always  in  such  definite 
and  precise  forms,  as  hands  or  flowers  or  hair,  looked 
forward  now  into  the  vague  land,  and  experienced  the 
last  curiosity. 


LESLIE  STEPHEN 

[Sir  Leslie  Stephen  was  born  in  London  in  1832.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Eton,  at  King's  College,  London,  and  at  Trinity  Hall,  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  was  graduated  in  1854  and  where  he  remained  as 
fellow  and  tutor  until  1864.  In  that  year  he  went  to  London  to  en- 
gage in  literature.  His  Sketches  from  Cambridge  was  published  in 
1 865.  He  became  editor  of  the  Corn/till  Magazine  in  1 87 1  and  had 
Stevenson,  Hardy,  and  Henry  James  among  its  contributors.  In 
1882  he  gave  up  this  position  to  become  editor  of  the  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography,  a  work  which  he  was  obliged  from  ill  health 
to  turn  over  to  Mr.  Sidney  Lee  in  1891.  He  was  knighted  in 
1902.  Besides  his  interest  in  biography  and  literature  Stephen 
was  a  keen  student  of  philosophy  and  ethics.  He  died  in  1904. 
His  principal  works  are  :  Hours  in  a  Library  (three  series,  1874- 
76-79)  ;  History  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century 
(1876),  new  edition  (1902);  The  Science  of  Ethics  (1882);  Life 
of  Henry  Fawcelt  (1885) ;  An  Agnostic's  Apology  (1893)  ;  Life  of 
Sir  fames  Fitzjames  Stephen  (1895);  Social  Rights  and  Duties 
(1896) ;  Studies  of  a  Biographer (4  vols.,  1898-1902) ;  The  English 
Utilitarians  (1900) ;  and  in  the  "  English  Men  of  Letters  Series," 
lives  of  Swift,  Pope,  Johnson,  Hobbes,  and  George  Eliot.] 

Few  English  literary  critics  have  so  many  uniformly 
sane  and  solid  essays  to  their  credit  as  Leslie  Stephen. 
Not  one  of  the  papers  in  the  two  series,  Hoars  in  a 
Library  and  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  is  unworthy  of 
the  distinguished  lover  of  letters  whose  "tenderness 
for  whatever  is  high-minded  and  sincere"  was  so  aptly 
praised  by  Lowell.  The  present  essay,  besides  be- 
ing representative  of  Stephen's  judicial  and  yet  indi- 
vidual attitude  in  criticism,  has  the  added  interest  of 
Prose — 24  369 


37°  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

being  a  reply  to  Carlyle's  famous  attack  upon  one 
of  the  most  delightful  men  of  literature, — Sir  Walter 
Scott. 

In  general  structure  the  essay  suggests  the  free, 
flowing  talk  of  a  cultivated  person  who  has  something 
to  say  and  says  it  unhesitatingly,  but  who  does  not 
trouble  himself  or  his  readers  over  rigid  logical  links 
and  boundaries.  Phases  of  the  subject,  once  you  are 
upon  the  full  stream  of  his  discussion,  seem  of  their 
own  accord  to  flow  in  and  enlarge  the  current.  But 
there  is  direction,  for  Stephen  was  a  careful  thinker, 
who  hated  shallowness,  sham,  and  idle  vaporing,  and 
who  always  left  upon  his  readers  an  impression  at  once 
definite  and  substantial. 

The  author  begins  with  the  question  of  Scott's  fame. 
After  the  glare  of  novelty  has  worn  off,  will  there  remain 
a  basis  of  true  metal?  Stephen  approaches  the  answer 
to  his  inquiry  through  an  examination  of  Carlyle's 
judgment  on  Scott,  which  he  states  with  exactness  and 
candor.  Carlyle's  judgment,  he  thinks  is  "harsher 
than  necessary."  Shakespeare  wrote  for  money,  and 
the  stimulus  of  money  to  a  richly-stored  brain  is  jus- 
tifiable; and  though  Scott,  like  Shakespeare,  wrote  in 
haste,  he  came  to  his  literary  labors  only  after  long 
preparation.  But  Stephen  concurs  in  Carlyle's  opin- 
ion that  Scott  does  not  arouse  the  deeper  passions, 
"fails  in  pure  passion  of  all  kinds,"  makes  "wooden 
blocks  of  his  heroes,  and  fashions  real  characters  only 
out  of  his  peasants."  Then  dismissing  Carlyle,  Ste- 
phen speaks  independently.  Ivanhoe,  if  not  for  men, 
ought  to  be  "delightful  for  boys."  And  Scott  should 
be  credited  with  the  help  he  gave  to  the  spread  of  a 
"genuine  historical  spirit."  His  greatness,  indeed,  lives 
in  his  "mode  of  connecting  past  and  present;"  and 
his  best  tales  are  just  far  enough  from  us  to  have  ac- 
quired a  "  picturesque  coloring."    These  best  tales  finally 


LESLIE   STEPHEN  37 1 

will  endure, — the  critic  hopes, — because  of  the  manly, 
lovable  nature  that  shines  through  them. 

The  spirit  and  method  of  the  essay  fairly  reflect 
Stephen's  serious  critical  attitude.  "I  like  books 
with  a  moral,"  he  says.  "The  fact  is,  I  take  it,  that 
poetry  in  a  mind  of  great  natural  power,  not  only  may 
be,  but  cannot  help  being,  philosophy."  He  seeks  the 
heart  of  a  book  or  writer,  the  view  of  life,  the  teaching; 
and  his  judgment  is  apt  to  be  high  or  low  according  to 
his  respect  for  the  writer's  contribution  to  the  solution 
of  life's  enigmas.  His  method  of  approach  is  scien- 
tific. "After  all,"  he  says,  "though  criticism  cannot 
boast  of  being  a  science,  it  ought  to  aim  at  something 
like  a  scientific  spirit,  or  at  least  to  proceed  in  a  scien- 
tific spirit."  With  a  jaunty,  impressionistic  criticism 
Stephen  had  no  sympathy.  He  strove  for  "  logical  sym- 
metry," for  unity  and  solidarity  of  view;  he  tried  to 
make  his  estimates  accord  with  reason  and  common 
sense.  But  he  did  not  aim  or  profess  to  be  oracular, 
as  Arnold  sometimes  did,  nor  to  anticipate  the  judg- 
ment of  posterity.  Though  Stephen  had  a  detached 
manner,  he  never  professed  to  eliminate  himself  from 
his  criticism.  In  truth,  the  charm  of  his  best  essays 
consists  in  the  alternation  of  the  judicial  and  the  per- 
sonal tone.  "Now  I  confess,"  he  says,  "that  to  me 
one  main  interest  in  reading  is  always  communion 
with  the  author." 

The  critical  and  the  individual  temper  of  Stephen 
is  admirably  shown  in  his  treatment  of  Scott.  He 
wishes  to  be  fair,  and  he  is  neither  a  zealous  worshiper 
nor  a  cynical  unbeliever.  While  correcting  the  harsh- 
ness of  Carlyle's  dictum,  and  while  frankly  calling 
Scott  "the  most  perfectly  delightful  of  story-tellers," 
he  refuses  to  see  in  him  one  of  the  supremely  great 
writers.  Nevertheless,  he  cannot  forget  the  Scott  of 
his  boyhood  and  he  descends  from  his  critical  dignity 


372  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

to  say  a  good  word  for  Ivanhoe.  The  personality  that 
lives  in  Scott's  best  books  Stephen  loves  too  much  to 
doubt  the  enduringness  of  the  medium  that  transmits  it. 
The  style  of  Leslie  Stephen  is  not  conspicuously  in- 
lividual  nor  can  he  rank  as  a  stylist  in  the  narrow  sense. 
"To  acquire  a  good  style,"  he  says,  "you  should  never 
think  of  style  at  all."  His  writing  is  not  brilliant;  its 
phrases  are  not  fashioned  to  catch  the  eye  or  the  ear. 
With  him,  as  with  Huxley,  "  the  '  flashes'  must  be  finished 
and  concentrated.  The  happy  phrase  has  to  be  fixed  in 
the  general  framework."  But  if  external  effects  are 
wanting,  the  style  is  really  notable  for  its  solidity,  its 
sanity,  its  admirable  mastery  of  material  that  is  worthy. 
It  discloses  a  man  of  strong  mental  powers,  intent  upon 
his  subject  and  wasting  no  word  or  phrase  for  super- 
fluous ornament.  It  is  a  style  that  bears  upon  its 
surface  the  impress  of  an  attractive  personality,  serious 
and  humorous  by  turns,  ironical,  even  cynical,  and  yet 
most  delightfully  human. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

The  question  has  begun  to  be  asked  about  Scott 
which  is  asked  about  every  great  man:  whether  he  is 
still  read  or  still  read  as  he  ought  to  be  read.  I  have 
been  glad  to  see  in  some  statistics  of  popular  literature 

5  that  the  Waverley  Novels  are  still  among  the  books 
most  frequently  bought  at  railway  stations,  and  scarcely 
surpassed  even  by  Pickwick  or  David  Copperfield.  A 
writer,  it  is  said,  is  entitled  to  be  called  a  classic  when 
his  books  have  been  read  for  a  century  after  his  death. 

io  The  number  of  books  which  fairly  satisfies  that  con- 
dition is  remarkably  small.     There  are  certain  books, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  373 

ol  course,  which  we  are  all  bound  to  read  if  we  make 
any  claim  to  be  decently  educated.  A  modern  English- 
man cannot  afford  to  confess  that  he  has  not  read 
Shakespeare  or  Milton;  if  he  talks  about  philosophy, 
he  must  have  dipped  at  least  into  Bacon  and  Hobbes  5 
and  Locke;  if  he  is  a  literary  critic,  he  must  know  some- 
thing of  Spenser  and  Donne  and  Dryden  and  the  early 
dramatists;  but  how  many  books  are  there  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  which  are  still  read  for  pleasure  by  other 
than  specialists?  To  speak  within  bounds,  I  fancy  10 
that  it  would  be  exceedingly  difficult  to  make  out  a  list 
of  one  hundred  English  books  which  after  publication 
for  a  century  are  still  really  familiar  to  the  average 
reader.  Something  like  ninety-nine  of  those  have  in 
any  case  lost  the  charm  of  novelty,  and  are  read,  if  read  15 
at  all,  from  some  vague  impression  that  the  reader  is 
doing  a  duty.  It  takes  a  very  powerful  voice  and  a 
very  clear  utterance  to  make  a  man  audible  to  the  fourth 
generation.  If  something  of  the  mildew  of  time  is  steal- 
ing over  the  Waverley  Novels,  we  must  regard  that  as  20 
all  but  inevitable.  Scott  will  have  succeeded  beyond 
any  but  the  very  greatest,  perhaps  even  as  much  as  the 
very  greatest,  if,  in  the  twentieth  century,  now  so  un- 
pleasantly near,  he  has  a  band  of  faithful  followers,  who 
still  read  because  they  like  to  read  and  not  because  they  25 
are  told  to  read.  Admitting  that  he  must  more  or  less 
undergo  the  universal  fate,  that  the  glory  must  be 
dimmed  even  though  it  be  not  quenched,  we  may  still  ask 
whether  he  will  not  retain  as  much  vitality  as  the  con- 
ditions of  humanity  permit:  Will  our  posterity  under-  30 


374  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

stand  at  least  why  he  was  once  a  luminary  of  the  first 
magnitude,  or  wonder  at  their  ancestors'  hallucination 
;:bout  a  mere  will-o'-the-wisp?  Will  some  of  his  best 
performances  stand  out  like  a  cathedral  amongst  ruined 

5  hovels,  or  will  they  all  sink  into  the  dust  together,  and 
the  outlines  of  what  once  charmed  the  world  be  traced 
only  by  Dryasdust  and  historians  of  literature?  It  is  a 
painful  task  to  examine  such  questions  impartially. 
This  probing  a  great  reputation,  and  doubting  whether 

10  we  can  come  to  anything  solid  at  the  bottom,  is  especially 
painful  in  regard  to  Scott.  For  he  has,  at  least,  this 
merit,  that  he  is  one  of  those  rare  natures  for  whom  we 
feel  not  merely  admiration  but  affection.  We  may  cher- 
ish the  fame  of  some  writers  in  spite  of,  not  on  account 

15  of,  many  personal  defects;  if  we  satisfied  ourselves  that 
their  literary  reputations  were  founded  on  the  sand,  we 
might  partly  console  ourselves  with  the  thought  that  we 
were  only  depriving  bad  men  of  a  title  to  genius.  But 
for  Scott  most  men  feel  in  even  stronger  measure  that 

20  kind  of  warm  fraternal  regard  which  Macaulay  and 
Thackeray  expressed  for  the  amiable,  but,  perhaps, 
rather  cold-blooded,  Addison.  The  manliness  and  the 
sweetness  of  the  man's  nature  predispose  us  to  return 
the  most  favorable  verdict  in  our  power.    And  we  may 

25  add  that  Scott  is  one  of  the  last  great  English  writers 
whose  influence  extended  beyond  his  island,  and  gave 
a  stimulus  to  the  development  of  European  thought. 
We  cannot  afford  to  surrender  our  faith  in  one  to  whom, 
whatever  his  permanent  merits,  we  must  trace  so  much 

30  that  is  characteristic  of  the  mind  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  375 

tury.  Whilst,  finally,  if  we  have  any  Scotch  blood  in 
our  veins,  we  must  be  more  or  less  than  men  to  turn  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  promptings  of  patriotism.  When  Shake- 
speare's fame  decays  everywhere  else,  the  inhabitants 
of  Stratford-on-Avon,  if  it  still  exist,  should  still  revere  5 
their  tutelary  saint;  and  the  old  town  of  Edinburgh 
should  tremble  in  its  foundation  when  a  sacrilegious  hand 
is  laid  upon  the  glory  of  Scott. 

Let  us,  however,  take  courage,  and,  with  such  im- 
partiality as  we  may  possess,  endeavor  to  sift  the  wheat  10 
from  the  chaff.  And,  by  way  of  following  an  able  guide, 
let  us  dwell  for  a  little  on  the  judgment  pronounced 
upon  Scott  by  one  whose  name  I  would  never  mention 
without  profound  respect,  and  who  has  a  special  claim 
to  be  heard  in  this  case.  Carlyle  is  (I  must  now  say  15 
was)  both  a  man  of  genius  and  a  Scotchman.  His  own 
writings  show  in  every  line  that  he  comes  of  the  same 
strong  Protestant  race  from  which  Scott  received  his 
best  qualities. 

"  The  Scotch  national  character  [says  Carlyle  himself]  originates  20 
in  many  circumstances.  First  of  all,  the  Saxon  stuff  there  was  to 
work  on ;  but  next,  and  beyond  all  else  except  that,  in  the  Pres- 
byterian gospel  of  John  Knox.  It  seems  a  good  national  char- 
acter, and,  on  some  sides,  not  so  good.  Let  Scott  thank  John 
Knox,  for  he  owed  him  much,  little  as  he  dreamed  of  debt  in  that  25 
quarter.  No  Scotchman  of  his  time  was  more  entirely  Scotch 
than  Walter  Scott :  the  good  and  the  not  so  good,  which  all 
Scotchmen  inherit,  ran  through  every  fiber  of  him." 

Nothing  more  true;  and  the  words  would  be  as  strik- 
ingly   appropriate    if    for  Walter  Scott    we    substitute  30 


I 


376  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

Thomas  Carlyle.  And  to  this  source  of  sympathy  we 
might  add  others.  Who  in  this  generation  could  rival 
Scott's  talent  for  the  picturesque,  unless  it  be  Carlyle? 
Who  has  done  so  much  to  apply  the  lesson  which  Scott, 
as  he  says,  first  taught  us — that  the  "  bygone  ages  of  the 
world  were  actually  filled  by  living  men,  not  by  protocols, 
state-papers,  controversies,  and  abstractions  of  men"? 
If  Scott  would  in  old  days — I  still  quote  his  critic — have 
harried  cattle  in  Tynedale  or  cracked  crowns  in  Reds- 
o  wire,  would  not  Carlyle  have  thundered  from  the  pulpit 
of  John  Knox  his  own  gospel,  only  in  slightly  altered 
phraseology — that  shams  should  not  live  but  die,  and 
that  men  should  do  what  work  lies  nearest  to  their  hands, 
as  in  the  presence  of  the  eternities  and  the  infinite  si- 

15  lences? 

The  last  parallel  reminds  us  that  if  there  are  points 
of  similarity,  there  are  contrasts  both  wide  and  deep. 
The  rugged  old  apostle  had  probably  a  very  low  opinion 
of  mosstroopers,  and  Carlyle  has  a  message  to  deliver 

20  to  his  fellow-creatures,  which  is  not  quite  according  to 
Scott.  And  thus  we  see  throughout  his  interesting  essay 
a  kind  of  struggle  between  two  opposite  tendencies — a 
genuine  liking  for  the  man,  tempered  by  a  sense  that 
Scott  dealt  rather  too  much  in  those  same  shams  to  pass 

25  muster  with  a  stern  moral  censor.  Nobody  can  touch 
Scott's  character  more  finely.  There  is  a  charming  little 
anecdote  which  every  reader  must  remember:  how  there 
was  a  "little  Blenheim  cocker"  of  singular  sensibility 
and  sagacity;  how  the  said  cocker  would  at  times  fall  into 

30  musings  like  those  of  a  Wertherean  poet,  and  lived  in 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  377 

perpetual  fear  of  strangers,  regarding  them  all  as  po- 
tentially dog  stealers;  how  the  dog  was,  nevertheless,  en- 
dowed with  "most  amazing  moral  tact,"  and  especially 
hated  the  genus  quack,  and,  above  all,  that  of  acrid- 
quack.  "These,"  says  Carlyle,  "though  never  so  clear-  5 
starched,  bland-smiling,  and  beneficent,  he  absolutely 
would  have  no  trade  with.  Their  very  sugar-cake  was 
unavailing.  He  said  with  emphasis,  as  clearly  as  bark- 
ing could  say  it,  'Acrid-quack,  a  vaunt!'  "  But  once 
when  "a  tall,  irregular,  busy-looking  man  came  halting  10 
by,"  that  wise,  nervous  little  dog  ran  towards  him,  and 
began  "fawning,  frisking,  licking  at  the  feet"  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  No  reader  of  reviews  could  have  done 
better  says  Carlyle;  and,  indeed,  that  canine  testimonial 
was  worth  having.  I  prefer  that  little  anecdote  even  to  15 
Lockhart's  account  of  the  pig,  which  had  a  romantic 
affection  for  the  author  of  Waverley.  Its  relater  at  least 
perceived  and  loved  that  unaffected  benevolence,  which 
invested  even  Scott's  bodily  presence  with  a  kind  of  nat- 
ural aroma,  perceptible,  as  it  would  appear,  to  very  far-  20 
away  cousins.  But  Carlyle  is  on  his  guard,  and  though 
his  sympathy  flows  kindly  enough,  it  is  rather  harshly 
intercepted  by  his  sterner  mood.  He  cannot,  indeed,  but 
warm  to  Scott  at  the  end.  After  touching  on  the  sad 
scene  of  Scott's  closing  years,  at  once  ennobled  and  em-  25 
bittered  by  that  last  desperate  struggle  to  clear  off  the 
burden  of  debt,  he  concludes  with  genuine  feeling. 

"  It  can  be  said  of  Scott,  when  he  departed  he  took  a  man's  life 
along  with  him.  No  sounder  piece  of  British  manhood  was  put 
together  in  that  eighteenth  century  of  time.     Alas,  his  fine  Scotch  30 


378  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

face,  with  its  shaggy  honesty,  sagacity,  and  goodness,  when  we 
saw  it  latterly  on  the  Edinburgh  streets,  was  all  worn  with  care, 
the  joy  all  fled  from  it,  plowed  deep  with  labor  and  sorrow. 
We  shall  never  forget  it — we  shall  never  see  it  again.  Adieu, 
5  Sir  Walter,  pride  of  all  Scotchmen ;  take  our  proud  and  sad 
farewell." 

If  even  the  Waverley  Novels  should  lose  their  interest, 
the  last  journals  of  Scott,  recently  published  by  a  ju- 
dicious editor,  can  never  lose  their  interest  as  the  record 

1 3  of  one  of  the  noblest  struggles  ever  carried  on  by  a  great 
man  to  redeem  a  lamentable  error.  It  is  a  book  to  do 
one  good. 

And  now  it  is  time  to  turn  to  the  failings  which,  in 
Carlyle's  opinion,  mar  this  pride  of  all  Scotchmen,  and 

15  make  his  permanent  reputation  doubtful.  The  faults 
upon  which  he  dwells  are,  of  course,  those  which  are 
more  or  less  acknowledged  by  all  sound  critics.  Scott, 
says  Carlyle,  had  no  great  gospel  to  deliver;  he  had 
nothing  of  the  martyr  about  him;  he  slew  no  monsters 

20  and  stirred  no  deep  emotions.  He  did  not  believe  in 
anything,  and  did  not  even  disbelieve  in  anything: 
he  was  content  to  take  the  world  as  it  came — the  false 
and  the  true  mixed  indistinguishably  together.  One 
Ram-dass,  a  Hindoo,  "who  set  up  for  god-head  lately," 

25  being  asked  what  he  meant  to  do  with  the  sins  of  man- 
kind, replied  that  "he  had  fire  enough  in  his  belly  to 
burn  up  all  the  sins  in  the  world."  Ram-dass  had 
"some  spice  of  sense  in  him."  Now,  of  fire  of  that  kind 
we  can  detect  few  sparks  in  Scott.    He  was  a  thoroughly 

30  healthy,  sound,  vigorous  Scotchman,  with  an  eye  for 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  379 

the  main  chance,  but  not  much  of  an  eye  for  the  eterni- 
ties. And  that  unfortunate  commercial  element,  which 
caused  the  misery  of  his  life,  was  equally  mischievous  to 
his  work.  He  cared  for  no  results  of  his  working  but  such 
as  could  be  seen  by  the  eye,  and  in  one  sense  or  other,  5 
"handled,  looked  at,  and  buttoned  into  the  breeches' 
pocket."  He  regarded  literature  rather  as  a  trade  than 
an  art;  and  literature,  unless  it  is  a  very  poor  affair, 
should  have  higher  aims  than  that  of  "  harmlessly  amus- 
ing indolent,  languid  men."  Scott  would  not  afford  the  10 
time  or  the  trouble  to  go  to  the  root  of  the  matter,  and 
is  content  to  amuse  us  with  mere  contrasts  of  costume, 
which  will  lose  their  interest  when  the  swallowtail  is  as 
obsolete  as  the  buff  coat.  And  then  he  fell  into  the  mod- 
ern sin  of  extempore  writing,  and  deluged  the  world  15 
with  the  first  hasty  overflowings  of  his  mind,  instead  of 
straining  and  refining  it  till  he  could  bestow  the  pure 
essence  upon  us.  In  short,  his  career  is  summed  up  in 
the  phrase  that  it  was  "writing  impromptu  novels  to 
buy  farms  with" — a  melancholy  end,  truly,  for  a  man  of  20 
rare  genius.  Nothing  is  sadder  than  to  hear  of  such  a 
man  "writing  himself  out;"  and  it  is  pitiable  indeed  that 
Scott  should  be  the  example  of  that  fate  which  rises 
most  naturally  to  our  minds. 

"  Something  very  perfect  in  its  kind  [says  Carlyle]  might  have  25 
come  from  Scott,  nor  was  it  a  low  kind— nay,  who  knows  how 
high,  with  studious  self-concentration,  he  might  have  gone:  what 
wealth  nature  implanted  in  him,  which  his  circumstances,  most 
unkind  while  seeming  to  be  kindest,  had  never  impelled  him  to 
unfold  ?  "  30 


380  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

There  is  undoubtedly  some  truth  in  the  severer  criti- 
cisms to  which  some  more  kindly  sentences  are  a  pleasant 
relief;  but  there  is  something  too  which  most  persons 
will  be  apt  to  consider  as  rather  harsher  than  necessary. 
5  Is  not  the  moral  preacher  intruding  a  little  too  much 
on  the  province  of  the  literary  critic?  In  fact  we  fancy 
that,  in  the  midst  of  these  energetic  remarks,  Carlyle 
is  conscious  of  certain  half-expressed  doubts.  The  name 
of  Shakespeare  occurs  several  times  in  the  course  of  his 

10  remarks,  and  suggests  to  us  that  we  can  hardly  con- 
demn Scott  whilst  acquitting  the  greatest  name  in  our 
literature.  Scott,  it  seems,  wrote  for  money;  he  coined 
his  brains  into  cash  to  buy  farms.  Did  not  Shakespeare 
do  pretty  much  the  same?    As  Carlyle  himself  puts  it, 

15  "beyond  drawing  audiences  to  the  Globe  Theater, 
Shakespeare  contemplated  no  result  in  those  plays  of 
his."    Shakespeare,  as  Pope  puts  it, 

"  Whom  you  and  every  playhouse  bill 
Style  the  divine,  the  matchless,  what  you  will, 
20  For  gain,  not  glory,  wing'd  his  roving  flight, 

And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite." 

To  write  for  money  was  long  held  to  be  disgraceful; 
and  Byron,  as  we  know,  taunted  Scott  because  his  pub- 
lishers combined 

25  "  To  yield  his  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line ; " 

whilst  Scott  seems  half  to  admit  that  his  conduct  required 
justification,  and  urges  that  he  sacrificed  to  literature 
very   fair  chances   in   his   original   profession.     Many 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  38 1 

people  might,  perhaps,  be  disposed  to  take  a  bolder  line 
of  defense.  Cut  out  of  English  fiction  all  that  which 
has  owed  its  birth  more  or  less  to  a  desire  of  earning 
money  honorably,  and  the  residue  would  be  painfully 
small.  The  truth,  indeed,  seems  to  be  simple.  No  good  5 
work  is  done  when  the  one  impelling  motive  is  the  desire 
of  making  a  little  money;  but  some  of  the  best  work 
that  has  ever  been  done  has  been  indirectly  due  to  the 
impecuniosity  of  the  laborers.  When  a  man  is  empty 
he  makes  a  very  poor  job  of  it,  in  straining  colorless  trash  10 
from  his  hardbound  brains;  but  when  his  mind  is  full 
to  bursting  he  may  still  require  the  spur  of  a  moderate 
craving  for  cash  to  induce  him  to  take  the  decisive 
plunge.  Scott  illustrates  both  cases.  The  melancholy 
drudgery  of  his  later  years  was  forced  from  him  in  spite  15 
of  nature;  but  nobody  ever  wrote  more  spontaneously 
than  Scott  when  he  was  composing  his  early  poems  and 
novels.  If  the  precedent  of  Shakespeare  is  good  for  any- 
thing, it  is  good  for  this.  Shakespeare,  it  may  be,  had 
a  more  moderate  ambition;  but  there  seems  to  be  no  20 
reason  why  the  desire  of  a  good  house  at  Stratford  should 
be  intrinsically  nobler  than  the  desire  of  a  fine  estate 
at  Abbotsford.  But  then,  it  is  urged,  Scott  allowed  him- 
self to  write  with  preposterous  haste.  And  Shakespeare, 
who  never  blotted  a  line!  What  is  the  great  difference  25 
between  them?  Mr.  Carlyle  feels  that  here  too  Scott 
has  at  least  a  very  good  precedent  to  allege;  but  he  en- 
deavors to  establish  a  distinction.  It  was  right,  he  says, 
for  Shakespeare  to  write  rapidly,  "  being  ready  to  do  it. 
And  herein  truly  lies  the  secret  of  the  matter;  such  swift-  3° 


382  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

ness  of  writing,  after  due  energy  of  preparation,  is, 
doubtless,  the  right  method;  the  hot  furnace  having 
long  worked  and  simmered,  let  the  pure  gold  flow  out 
at  one  gush."  Could  there  be  a  better  description  of 
5  Scott  in  his  earlier  years?  He  published  his  first  poem 
of  any  pretensions  at  thirty-four,  an  age  which  Shelley 
and  Keats  never  reached,  and  which  Byron  only  passed 
by  two  years.  Waverley  came  out  when  he  was  forty- 
three — most  of  our  modern  novelists  have  written  them- 

10  selves  out  long  before  they  arrive  at  that  respectable 
period  of  life.  From  a  child  he  had  been  accumulating 
the  knowledge  and  the  thoughts  that  at  last  found  ex- 
pression in  his  work.  He  had  been  a  teller  of  stories 
before  he  was  well  in  breeches;  and  had  worked  hard 

1 5  till  middle  life  in  accumulating  vast  stores  of  picturesque 
imagery.  The  delightful  notes  to  all  his  books  give  us 
some  impression  of  the  fullness  of  mind  which  poured 
forth  a  boundless  torrent  of  anecdote  to  the  guests  at 
Abbotsford.     We  only  repine  at  the  prodigality  of  the 

20  harvest  when  we  forget  the  long  process  of  culture  by 
which  it  was  produced.  And,  more  than  this,  when  we 
look  at  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  Scott's  style — 
that  easy  flow  of  narrative  never  heightening  into  epi- 
gram, and  indeed,  to  speak  the  truth,  full  of  slovenly 

25  blunders  and  amazing  grammatical  solecisms,  but  also 
always  full  of  a  charm  of  freshness  and  fancy  most  diffi- 
cult to  analyze — we  may  well  doubt  whether  much  labor 
would  have  improved  or  injured  him.  No  man  ever 
depended  more  on  the  perfectly  spontaneous  flow  of  his 

30  narratives.    Carlyle  quotes  Schiller  against  him,  amongst 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  383 

other  and  greater  names.  We  need  not  attempt  to  com- 
pare the  two  men;  but  do  not  Schiller's  tragedies  smell 
rather  painfully  of  the  lamp?  Does  not  the  professor 
of  aesthetics  pierce  a  little  too  distinctly  through  the 
exterior  of  the  poet?  And,  for  one  example,  are  not  5 
Schiller's  excellent  but  remarkably  platitudinous  peas- 
ants in  William  Tell  miserably  colorless  alongside  of 
Scott's  rough  border  dalesmen,  racy  of  speech,  and  redo- 
lent of  their  native  soil  in  every  word  and  gesture?  To 
every  man  his  method  according  to  his  talent.  Scott  is  10 
the  most  perfectly  delightful  of  story-tellers,  and  it  is 
the  very  essence  of  story-telling  that  it  should  not  fol- 
low prescribed  canons  of  criticism,  but  be  as  natural 
as  the  talk  by  firesides,  and  it  is  to  be  feared,  over  many 
gallons  of  whisky  toddy,  of  which  it  is,  in  fact,  the  re-  15 
fined  essence.  Scott  skims  off  the  cream  of  his  varied 
stores  of  popular  tradition  and  antiquarian  learning 
with  strange  facility;  but  he  had  tramped  through  many 
a  long  day's  march,  and  pored  over  innumerable  ballads 
and  forgotten  writers,  before  he  had  anything  to  skim.  20 
Had  he  not — if  we  may  use  the  word  without  offense — 
been  cramming  all  his  life,  and  practicing  the  art  of 
story-telling  every  day  he  lived?  Probably  the  most 
striking  incidents  of  his  books  are  in  reality  mere  mod- 
ifications of  anecdotes  which  he  had  rehearsed  a  hun-  25 
dred  times  before,  just  disguised  enough  to  fit  into  his 
story.  Who  can  read,  for  example,  the  inimitable  legend 
of  the  blind  piper  in  Redgauntlet  without  seeing  that  it 
bears  all  the  marks  of  long  elaboration  as  clearly  as  one 
of  those  discourses  of  Whitfield,   which,   by  constant  30 


384  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

repetition,  became  marvels  of  dramatic  art?  He  was 
an  impromptu  composer,  in  the  sense  that  when  his 
anecdotes  once  reached  paper,  they  flowed  rapidly,  and 
were  little  corrected;  but  the  correction  must  have  been 
5  substantially  done  in  many  cases  long  before  they  ap- 
peared in  the  state  of  "copy." 

Let  us,  however,  pursue  the  indictment  a  little  further. 
Scott  did  not  believe  in  anything  in  particular.  Yet 
once  more,  did  Shakespeare?    There  is  surely  a  poetry 

10  of  doubt  as  well  as  a  poetry  of  conviction,  or  what  shall 
we  say  to  Hamlet?  Appearing  in  such  an  age  as  the  end 
of  the  last  and  the  beginning  of  this  century,  Scott  could 
but  share  the  intellectual  atmosphere  in  which  he  was 
born,  and  at  that  day,  whatever  we  may  think  of  this, 

15  few  people  had  any  strong  faith  to  boast  of.  Why  should 
not  a  poet  stand  aside  from  the  chaos  of  conflicting 
opinions,  so  far  as  he  was  able  to  extricate  himself  from 
the  unutterable  confusion  around  them,  and  show  us 
what  was  beautiful  in  the  world  as  he  saw  it,  without 

20  striving  to  combine  the  office  of  prophet  with  his  more 
congenial  occupation?  Carlyle  did  not  mean  to  urge  so 
feeble  a  criticism  as  that  Scott  had  no  very  uncompro- 
mising belief  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles;  for  that  is  a 
weakness  which  he   would  share   with  his  critic   and 

25  with  his  critic's  idol,  Goethe.  The  meaning  is  partly 
given  by  another  phrase.  "While  Shakespeare  works 
from  the  heart  outwards,  Scott,"  says  Carlyle,  "works 
from  the  skin  inwards,  never  getting  near  the  heart  of 
men."    The  books  are  addressed  entirely  to  the  every- 

30  day  mind.    They  have  nothing  to  do  with  emotions  or 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  385 

principles,  beyond  those  of  the  ordinary  country  gentle- 
man; and,  we  may  add,  of  the  country  gentleman  with 
his  digestion  in  good  order,  and  his  hereditary  gout 
still  in  the  distant  future.  The  more  inspiring  thoughts, 
the  deeper  passions,  are  seldom  roused.  If  in  his  width  5 
of  sympathy,  and  his  vivid  perception  of  character 
within  certain  limits,  he  reminds  us  of  Shakespeare,  we 
can  find  no  analogy  in  his  writings  to  the  passion  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  or  to  the  intellectual  agony  of  Hamlet.  The 
charge  is  not  really  that  Scott  lacks  faith,  but  that  he  10 
never  appeals,  one  way  or  the  other,  to  the  faculties 
which  make  faith  a  vital  necessity  to  some  natures,  or 
lead  to  a  desperate  revolt  against  established  faith  in 
others.  If  Byron  and  Scott  could  have  been  combined; 
if  the  energetic  passions  of  the  one  could  have  been  15 
joined  to  the  healthy  nature  and  quick  sympathies  of 
the  other,  we  might  have  seen  another  Shakespeare  in 
the  nineteenth  century.  As  it  is,  both  of  them  are 
maimed  and  imperfect  on  different  sides.  It  is,  in  fact, 
remarkable  how  Scott  fails  when  he  attempts  a  flight  20 
into  the  regions  where  he  is  less  at  home  than  in  his 
ordinary  style.  Take,  for  instance,  a  passage  from 
Rob  Roy,  where  our  dear  friend,  the  Bailie,  Nicol  Jarvie, 
is  taken  prisoner  by  Rob  Roy's  amiable  wife,  and  ap- 
peals to  her  feelings  of  kinship:  25 

"«I  dinna  ken,'  said  the  undaunted  Bailie,  'if  the  kindred  has 
ever  been  weel  redd  out  to  you  yet,  cousin — but  it's  kenned,  and 
can  be  proved.  My  mother,  Elspeth  Macfarlane  (otherwise  Mac- 
gregor),  was  the  wife  of  my  father,  Denison  Nicol  Jarvie  (peace 
be  with  them  baith),  and  Elspeth  was  the  daughter  of  Farlane  30 
Prose — 25 


386  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

Macfarlane  (or  Macgregor),  at  the  shielding  of  Loch  Sloy.  Now 
this  Farlane  Macfarlane  (or  Macgregor),  as  his  surviving  daughter, 
Maggy  Macfarlane,  wha  married  Duncan  Macnab  of  Stuckavral- 
lachan,  can  testify,  stood  as  near  to  your  gudeman,  Robin  Mac- 

5  gregor,  as  in  the  fourth  degree  of  kindred,  fur ' 

"  The  virago  lopped  the  genealogical  tree  by  demanding  haught- 
ily if  a  stream  of  rushing  water  acknowleged  any  relation  with  the 
portion  withdrawn  from  it  for  the  mean  domestic  uses  of  those 
who  dwelt  on  its  banks  ?  " 

10  The  Bailie  is  as  real  a  human  being  as  ever  lived — 
as  the  present  Lord  Mayor,  or  Dandie  Dinmont,  or 
Sir  Walter  himself;  but  Mrs.  Macgregor  has  obviously 
just  stepped  off  the  boards  of  a  minor  theater,  devoted 
to  the  melodrama.    As  long  as  Scott  keeps  to  his  strong 

15  ground,  his  figures  are  as  good  flesh  and  blood  as  ever 
walked  in  the  Saltmarket  of  Glasgow;  when  once  he 
tries  his  heroics,  he  too  often  manufactures  his  charac- 
ters from  the  materials  used  by  the  frequenters  of  masked 
balls.     Yet  there  are  many  such  occasions  on  which 

20  his  genius  does  not  desert  him.  Balfour  of  Burley  may 
rub  shoulders  against  genuine  Covenanters  and  west- 
country  Whigs  without  betraying  his  fictitious  origin. 
The  Master  of  Ravenswood  attitudinizes  a  little  too 
much  with  his  Spanish  cloak  and  his  slouched  hat; 

25  but  we  feel  really  sorry  for  him  when  he  disappears  in 
the  Kelpie's  Flow.  And  when  Scott  has  to  do  with  his 
own  peasants,  with  the  thoroughbred  Presbyterian 
Scotchman,  he  can  bring  intense  tragic  interest  from  his 
homely  materials.     Douce  Davie  Deans,  distracted  be- 

30  tween  his  religious  principles  and  his  desire  of  saving 
his  daughter's  life,  and  seeking  relief  even  in  the  midst 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  387 

of  his   agonies  by  that   admirable  burst   of  spiritual 
pride : 

"  Though  I  will  neither  exalt  myself  nor  pull  down  others,  I  wish 
that  every  man  and  woman  in  this  land  had  kept  the  true  testi- 
mony and  the  middle  and  straight  path,  as  it  were  on  the  ridge  5 
of  a  hill,  where  wind  and  water  steals,  avoiding  right-hand  snare 
and  extremes,  and  left-hand  way-slidings,  as  well  as  Johnny  Dodds 
of  Farthy's  acre  and  ae  man  mair  that  shall  be  nameless — " 

Davie  is  as  admirable  a  figure  as  ever  appeared  in 
fiction.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  was  mixed  up  with  the  con-  10 
ventional  madwoman,  Madge  Wildfire,  and  that  a  story 
most  touching  in  its  native  simplicity  was  twisted  and 
tortured  into  needless  intricacy.  The  religious  exalta- 
tion of  Balfour,  or  the  religious  pig-headedness  of  Davie 
Deans,  are  indeed  given  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  15 
kindly  humorist  rather  than  of  one  who  can  fully  sym- 
pathize with  the  sublimity  of  an  intense  faith  in  a  homely 
exterior.  And  though  many  good  judges  hold  the  Bride 
of  Lammermoor  to  be  Scott's  best  performance,  in  virtue 
of  the  loftier  passions  which  animate  the  chief  actors  20 
in  the  tragedy,  we  are,  after  all,  called  upon  to  sympa- 
thize as  much  with  the  gentleman  of  good  family  who 
can't  ask  his  friends  to  dinner  without  an  unworthy  de- 
vice to  hide  his  poverty,  as  with  the  passionate  lover 
whose  mistress  has  her  heart  broken.  In  truth,  this  25 
criticism  as  to  the  absence  of  high  passion  reminds  us 
again  that  Scott  was  a  thorough  Scotsman,  and— for 
it  is  necessary,  even  now,  to  avoid  the  queer  miscon- 
ception which  confounds  together  the  most  distinct 
races— a  thorough  Saxon.    He  belonged,  that  is,  to  the  3° 


388  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

race  which  has  in  the  most  eminent  degree  the  typical 
English  qualities.  Especially  his  intellect  had  a  strong 
substratum  of  downright  dogged  common  sense;  his  re- 
ligion, one  may  conjecture,  was  pretty  much  that  of  all 
5  men  of  sense  in  his  time.  It  was  that  of  the  society 
which  had  produced  and  been  influenced  by  Hume  and 
Adam  Smith;  which  had  dropped  its  old  dogmas  with- 
out becoming  openly  skeptical,  but  which  emphatically 
took  "common  sense"  for  the  motto  of  its  philosophy. 

10  It  was  equally  afraid  of  bigotry  and  skepticism  and  had 
manufactured  a  creed  out  of  decent  compromises  which 
served  well  enough  for  ordinary  purposes.  Even  Hume, 
a  skeptic  in  theory,  was  a  Tory  and  a  Scottish  patriot  in 
politics.    Scott,  who  cared  nothing  for  abstract  philoso- 

15  phy,  did  not  bother  himself  to  form  any  definite  system 
of  opinions;  he  shared  Hume's  political  prejudices  with- 
out inquiring  into  his  philosophy.  He  thoroughly  de- 
tested the  dogmatism  of  the  John  Knox  variety,  and 
considered  the  Episcopal  Church  to  offer  the  religion 

20  for  a  gentleman.  But  his  common  sense  in  such  matters 
was  chiefly  shown  by  not  asking  awkward  questions  and 
adopting  the  creed  which  was  most  to  his  taste  without 
committing  himself  to  any  strong  persuasion  as  to 
abstract  truth.    He  would,  on  the  whole,  leave  such  mat- 

25  ters  alone,  an  attitude  of  mind  which  was  not  to  Car- 
Ivle's  taste.  In  the  purely  artistic  direction,  this  com- 
mon sense  is  partly  responsible  for  the  defect  which  has 
been  so  often  noticed  in  Scott's  heroes.  Your  genuine 
Scot  is  indeed  as  capable  of  intense  passion  as  any  human 

30  being  in  the  world.    Burns  is  proof  enough  of  the  fact 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  389 

if  any  one  doubted  it.     But  Scott  was  a  man  of  more 
massive  and  less  impulsive  character.     If  he  had  strong 
passions,  they  were  ruled  by  his  common  sense;  he  kept 
them  well  in  hand,  and  did  not  write  till  the  period  of 
youthful   effervescence   was   over.      His   heroes   always    5 
seem  to  be  described  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  man 
old  enough  to  see  the  folly  of  youthful  passion  or  too 
old  fully  to  sympathize  with  it.     They  are  chiefly  re- 
markable   for    a    punctilious    pride    which    gives    their 
creator  some  difficulty  in  keeping  them  out  of  super-  10 
fluous  duels.    When  they  fall  in  love  they  always  seem 
to  feel  themselves  as  Lovel  felt  himself  in  the  Antiquary, 
under  the  eye   of   Jonathan  Oldbuck,  who  was  himself 
once  in  love  but  has  come  to  see  that  he  was  a  fool  for 
his  pains.     Certainly,  somehow  or  other,  they  are  apt  15 
to  be  terribly  wooden.    Cranstoun  in  the  Lay  0}  the  Last 
Minstrel,  Graeme  in  the  Lady  0}  the  Lake,  or  Wilton  in 
Marmion,  are  all  unspeakable  bores.    Waverley  himself, 
and  Lovel  in  the  Antiquary,  and  Vanbeest  Brown  in 
Guy  Mannering,  and  Harry  Morton  in  Old  Mortality,  20 
and,  in  short,  the  whole  series  of  Scott's  pattern  young 
men,  are  all  chips  of  the  same  block.    They  can  all  run, 
and  ride,  and  fight,  and  make  pretty  speeches,  and  ex- 
press the  most  becoming  sentiments;  but  somehow  they 
all  partake  of  one  fault,  the  same  which  was  charged  25 
against  the  otherwise  incomparable  horse,  namely,  that 
they  are  dead.    And  we  must  confess  that  this  is  a  con- 
siderable drawback  from  Scott's  novels.     To  take  the 
passion  out  of  a  novel  is  something  like  taking  the  sun- 
light out  of  a  landscape;  and  to  condemn  all  the  heroes  30 


390  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

to  be  utterly  commonplace  is  to  remove  the  center  of 
interest  in  a  manner  detrimental  to  the  best  intents  of 
the  story.  When  Thackeray  endeavored  to  restore  Re- 
becca to  her  rightful   place  in  Ivanhoe,   he  was  only 

5  doing  what  is  more  or  less  desirable  in  all  the  series. 
We  long  to  dismount  these  insipid  creatures  from  the 
pride  of  place,  and  to  supplant  them  by  some  of  the  ad- 
mirable characters  who  are  doomed  to  play  subsidiary 
parts.    There  is,  however,  another  reason  for  this  weak- 

10  ness  which  seems  to  be  overlooked  by  many  of  Scott's 
critics.  We  are  often  referred  to  Scott  as  a  master  of 
pure  and  what  is  called  "objective"  story-telling.  Cer- 
tainly I  don't  deny  that  Scott  could  be  an  admirable 
story-teller:    Ivanhoe    and    the    Bride    of    Lammermoor 

15  would  be  sufficient  to  convict  me  of  error  if  I  did.  But 
as  mere  stories,  many  of  his  novels— and  moreover  his 
masterpieces — are  not  only  faulty,  but  distinctly  bad. 
Taking  him  purely  and  simply  from  that  point  of  view, 
he  is  very  inferior,  for  example,  to  Alexandre  Dumas. 

20  You  cannot  follow  the  thread  of  most  of  his  narratives 
with  any  particular  interest  in  the  fate  of  the  chief  actors. 
In  the  "Introductory  Epistle"  prefixed  to  the  Fortunes 
of  Nigel,  Scott  himself  gives  a  very  interesting  account 
of  his  method.     He  has  often,  he  says  in  answer  to  an 

25  imaginary  critic,  begun  by  laying  down  a  plan  of  his 
work  and  tried  to  construct  an  ideal  story,  evolving  it- 
self by  due  degrees  and  ending  by  a  proper  catastrophe. 
But,  a  demon  seats  himself  on  his  pen,  and  leads  it 
astray.      Characters    expand;    incidents    multiply;    the 

30  story  lingers  while  the  materials  increase;  Bailie  Jarvie 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  39 1 

or  Dugald  Dalgetty  leads  him  astray,  and  he  goes  many 
a  weary  mile  from  the  regular  road  and  has  to  leap  hedge 
and  ditch  to  get  back.    If  he  resists  the  temptation,  his 
imagination  flags  and  he  becomes  prosy  and  dull.     No 
one  can  read  his  best  novels  without  seeing  the  truth    5 
of  this  description.    Waverley  made  an  immense  success 
as  a  description  of  new  scenes  and  social  conditions:  the 
story  of  Waverley  himself  is  the  least  interesting  part  of 
the  book.    Everybody  who  has  read  Guy  Mannering  re- 
members Dandie  Dinmont  and  Meg  Merrilies  and  Pley-  10 
dell  and  Dominie  Sampson;  but  how  many  people  could 
explain  the  ostensible  story — the  love  affair  of  Vanbeest 
Brown  and  Julia  Mannering?    We  can  see  how  Scott 
put  the  story  together.     He  was  pouring  out  the  most 
vivid  and  interesting  recollections  of  the  borderers  whom  15 
he  knew  so  well,  of  the  old  Scottish  gentry  and  smugglers 
and  peasants,  and  the  old-fashioned  lawyers  who  played 
high  jinks  in  the  wynds  of  Edinburgh.     No  more  de- 
lightful collection  of  portraits  could  be  brought  together. 
But  he  had  to  get  a  story  as  a  thread.    He  started  with  20 
the  legend  about  an  astrological  prediction  told  of  Dry- 
den  and  one  of  his  sons,  and  mixed  it  up  with  the  An- 
nesley  case,  where  a  claimant  turned  up  with  more  plausi- 
bility than  the  notorious  Orton.      This  introduced  of 
necessity  an  impossible  and  conventional  bit  of  love-  25 
making  and  a  recognition  of   a  long-lost  heir.     He  is 
full  of  long-lost  heirs.     Equally  conventional  and  im- 
possible stories  are  introduced  in   the  Antiquary,   the 
Heart  of  Midlothian,  and  the  Legend  of  Montrose  and 
elsewhere.    Nobody  cares  about  them,  and  the  charac-  30 


392  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

ters  which  ostensibly  play  the  chief  part  serve  merely 
to  introduce  us  to  the  subordinate  actors.  Waverley,  for 
example,  gives  a  description  drawn  with  unsurpassable 
spirit  of  the  state  of  the  Highland  clans  in  1745;  and  poor 
5  Waverley's  love  affair  passes  altogether  out  of  sight 
during  the  greatest  and  most  interesting  part  of  the  nar- 
rative. When  Moore  said  of  the  poems  that  Scott  in- 
tended to  illustrate  all  the  gentlemen's  seats  between 
Edinburgh  and  London,  he  was  not  altogether  wide  of 

10  the  mark.  The  novels  are  all  illustrations — not  of 
"gentlemen's  seats"  indeed,  but  of  various  social  states; 
and  it  is  only  by  a  kind  of  happy  accident  when  this 
interest  in  the  surroundings  does  not  put  the  chief  char- 
acters out  of  focus.    Nobody  has  created  a  greater  num- 

15  ber  of  admirable  types,  but  when  we  run  over  their 
names  we  perceive  that  in  most  cases  they  are  the  sec- 
ondary performers  who  are  ousting  the  nominal  heroes 
and  heroines  from  their  places.  Dugald  Dalgetty,  for 
example,  becomes  so  attractive  that  he  squeezes  all  the 

20  other  actors  into  a  mere  corner  of  the  canvas.  Perhaps 
nothing  more  is  necessary  to  explain  why  Scott  failed  as 
a  dramatist.  With  him,  Hamlet  would  have  been  a 
mere  peg  to  show  us  how  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
stern  amused  themselves  at  the  royal  drinking  place. 

25  For  this  reason,  again,  Scott  bestows  an  apparently 
disproportionate  amount  of  imagination  upon  the  mere 
scene-painting,  the  external  trappings,  the  clothes  or 
dwelling  places  of  his  performers.  A  traveler  into 
a  strange  country  naturally  gives  us  the  external  pecul- 

30  iarities  which  strike  him.     Scott  has  to  tell  us  what 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  T>93 

"completed  the  costume"  of  his  Highland  chiefs  or 
mediaeval  barons.  He  took,  in  short,  to  that  "buff- 
jerkin"  business  of  which  Carlyle  speaks  so  contemp- 
tuously, and  fairly  carried  away  the  hearts  of  his  con- 
temporaries by  a  lavish  display  of  mediaeval  upholstery.  5 
Lockhart  tells  us  that  Scott  could  not  bear  the  common- 
place daubings  of  walls  with  uniform  coats  of  white, 
blue,  and  grey.    All  the  roofs  at  Abbotsford 

"were,  in  appearance  at  least,  of  carved  oak,  relieved  by coats-of- 
arms  duly  blazoned  at  the  intersections  of  beams,  and  resting  on  10 
cornices,  to  the  eye  of  the  same  material,  but  composed  of  casts 
in  plaster  of  Paris,  after  the  foliage,  the  flowers,  the  grotesque 
monsters  and  dwarfs,  and  sometimes  the  beautiful  heads  of  nuns 
and  confessors,  on  which  he  had  doated  from  infancy  among  the 
cloisters  of  Melrose  Abbey."  15 

The  plaster  looks  as  well  as  the  carved  oak  for  a  time; 
but  the  day  speedily  comes  when  the  sham  crumbles 
into  ashes,  and  Scott's  knights  and  nobles,  like  his 
carved  cornices,  became  dust  in  the  next  generation.  It 
is  hard  to  say  it,  and  yet  we  fear  it  must  be  admitted,  20 
that  many  of  those  historical  novels,  which  once  charmed 
all  men,  and  for  which  we  have  still  a  lingering  affection, 
are  rapidly  converting  themselves  into  mere  debris  of 
plaster  of  Paris.  Sir  F.  Palgrave  says  somewhere  that 
"historical  novels  are  mortal  enemies  to  history,"  and  25 
we  are  often  tempted  to  add  that  they  are  mortal  enemies 
to  fiction.  There  may  be  an  exception  or  two,  but  as  a 
rule  the  task  is  simply  impracticable.  The  novelist  is 
bound  to  come  so  near  to  the  facts  that  we  feel  the  un- 
reality of  his  portraits.    Either  the  novel  becomes  pure  30 


394  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

cram,  a  dictionary  of  antiquities  dissolved  in  a  thin 
solution  of  romance,  or,  which  is  generally  more  refresh- 
ing, it  takes  leave  of  accuracy  altogether  and  simply 
takes  the  plot  and  the  costume  from  history,  but  allows 
5  us  to  feel  that  genuine  moderns  are  masquerading  in  the 
dress  of  a  bygone  century.  Even  in  the  last  case, 
it  generally  results  in  a  kind  of  dance  in  fetters  and  a 
comparative  breakdown  under  self-imposed  obligations. 
Ivanhoe  and  Kenilworth  and  Quenlin  Durward,  and  the 

10  rest  are  of  course  audacious  anachronisms  for  the 
genuine  historian.  Scott  was  imposed  upon  by  his  own 
fancy.  He  was  probably  not  aware  that  his  Balfour  of 
Burley  was  real  flesh  and  blood,  because  painted  from 
real  people  round  him,  while  his  Claverhouse  is  made 

15  chiefly  of  plumes  and  jackboots.  Scott  is  chiefly  re- 
sponsible for  the  odd  perversion  of  facts,  which  reached 
its  height,  as  Macaulay  remarks,  in  the  marvelous  per- 
formance of  our  venerated  ruler,  George  IV.  That 
monarch,  he  observes,  "thought  that  he  could  not  give 

20  a  more  striking  proof  of  his  respect  for  the  usages  which 
had  prevailed  in  Scotland  before  the  Union  than  by 
disguising  himself  in  what,  before  the  Union,  was  con- 
sidered by  nine  Scotchmen  out  of  ten  as  the  dress  of  a 
thief."     The  passage  recalls  the  too  familiar  anecdote 

25  about  Scott  and  the  wineglass  consecrated  by  the 
sacred  lips  of  his  king.  At  one  of  the  portrait  exhibitions 
in  South  Kensington  was  hung  up  a  representation  of 
George  IV,  with  the  body  of  a  stalwart  Highlander  in 
full  costume,  some  seven  or  eight  feet  high;  the  face 

30  formed  from  the  red  puffy  cheeks  developed  by  innum- 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  395 

erable  bottles  of  port  and  burgundy  at  Carlton  House; 
and  the  whole  surmounted  by  a   bonnet  with    waving 
plumes.      Scott   was  chiefly   responsible   for   disguising 
that  elderly  London  debauchee  in  the  costume  of  a  wild 
Gaelic  cattle-stealer,  and  was  apparently  insensible  of    5 
the  gross  absurdity.    We  are  told  that  an  air  of  burlesque 
was  thrown  over  the  proceedings  at  Holyrood  by  the 
apparition   of  a   true   London   alderman   in   the   same 
costume  as  his  master.     An  alderman  who  could  bur- 
lesque such  a  monarch  must  indeed  have  been  a  credit  10 
to  his  turtle  soup.    Let  us  pass  by  with  a  brief  lamenta- 
tion that  so  great  and  good  a  man  laid  himself  open  to 
Carlyle's  charge  of  sham  worship.     We  have  lost  our 
love  of  buff  jerkins  and  other  scraps  from   mediaeval 
museums,  and  Scott  is  suffering  from  having  preferred  15 
working  in  stucco  to  carving  in  marble.    We  are  perhaps 
inclined  to  saddle  Scott  unconsciously  with  the  sins  of  a 
later  generation.     Borrow,  in  his  delightful  Lavengro, 
meets  a  kind  of  Jesuit  in  disguise  in  that  sequestered 
dell  where  he  beats  "the  Blazing  Tinman."    The  Jesuit,  20 
if  I  remember  rightly,  confides  to  him  that  Scott  was  a 
tool  of  that  diabolical  conspiracy  which  has  infected 
our  old  English  Protestantism  with  the  poison  of  modern 
Popery.     And,  though  the  evil  may  be  traced  further 
back,  and  was  due  to  more  general  causes  than  the  in-  25 
fluence  of  any  one  writer,  Scott  was  clearly  responsible 
in  his  degree  for  certain  recent  phenomena.     The  buff 
jerkin  became  the  lineal  ancestor  of  various  copes,  stoles, 
and  chasubles  which  stink  in  the  nostrils  of  honest  Dis- 
senters.    Our  modern  revivalists  profess  to  despise  the  30 


396  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

flimsiness  of  the  first  attempts  in  this  direction.  They 
laugh  at  the  carpenter's  Gothic  of  Abbotsford  or  Straw- 
berry Hill,  and  do  not  ask  themselves  how  their  own 
more  elaborate  blundering  will  look  in  the  eyes  of  a 
5  future  generation.  What  will  our  posterity  think  of  our 
masquerading  in  old  clothes?  Will  they  want  a  new 
Cromwell  to  sweep  away  nineteenth-century  shams,  as 
his  ancestors  smashed  mediaeval  ruins,  or  will  they,  as 
we  may  rather  hope,  be  content  to  let  our  pretentious 

10  rubbish  find  its  natural  road  to  ruin?  One  thing  is 
pretty  certain,  and  in  its  way  comforting;  that,  however 
far  the  rage  for  revivalism  may  be  pushed,  nobody  will 
ever  want  to  revive  the  nineteenth  century.  But  for 
Scott,  in  spite  of  his  complicity  in  this  wearisome  process, 

15  there  is  something  still  to  be  said.  Ivanhoe  cannot  be 
given  up.  The  vivacity  of  the  description — the  delight 
with  which  Scott  throws  himself  into  the  pursuit  of  his 
knicknacks  and  antiquarian  rubbish,  has  something 
contagious  about  it.     Ivanhoe,  let  it  be  granted,  is  no 

20  longer  a  work  for  men,  but  it  still  is,  or  still  ought  to  be, 
delightful  reading  for  boys.  The  ordinary  boy,  indeed, 
when  he  reads  anything,  seems  to  choose  descriptions 
of  the  cricket  matches  and  boat  races  in  which  his  soul 
most  delights.     But  there  must  still  be  some  unsophis- 

25  ticated  youths  who  can  relish  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the 
Arabian  Nights  and  other  favorites  of  our  own  child- 
hood, and  such  at  least  should  pore  over  the  "Gentle 
and  free  passage  of  arms  at  Ashby,"  admire  those  in- 
credible feats  with  the  long-bow  which  would  have  en- 

30  abled  Robin  Hood  to  meet  successfully  a  modern  volun- 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  397 

teer  armed  with  the  Martini-Henry,  and  follow  the  terrific 
head-breaking  of  Front  de  Bauf,  Bois-Guilbert,  the  holy 
clerk  of  Copmanshurst,  and  the  Noir  Faineant,  even  to 
the  time,  when  for  no  particular  reason  beyond  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  story,  the  Templar  suddenly  falls  from  his  5 
horse,  and  is  discovered,  to  our  no  small  surprise,  to  be 
"unscathed  by  the  lance  of  the  enemy,"  and  to  have 
died  a  victim  to  the  violence  of  his  own  contending 
passions.  If  Ivanhoe  has  been  exploded  by  Professor 
Freeman,  it  did  good  work  in  its  day.  If  it  were  possible  10 
for  a  critic  to  weigh  the  merits  of  a  great  man  in  a  bal- 
ance, and  to  decide  precisely  how  far  his  excellencies  ex- 
ceed his  defects,  we  should  have  to  set  off  Scott's  real 
services  to  the  spread  of  a  genuine  historical  spirit 
against  the  encouragement  which  he  afforded  to  its  15 
bastard  counterfeit.  To  enable  us  rightly  to  appreciate 
our  forefathers,  to  recognize  that  they  were  living  men, 
and  to  feel  our  close  connection  with  them,  is  to  put  a 
vivid  imagination  to  one  of  its  worthiest  uses.  It  was 
perhaps  inevitable  that  we  should  learn  to  appreciate  20 
our  ancestors  by  paying  them  the  doubtful  compliment 
of  external  mimicry;  and  that  only  by  slow  degrees,  and 
at  the  price  of  much  humiliating  experience,  should  we 
learn  the  simple  lesson  that  a  childish  adult  has  not  the 
grace  of  childhood.  Even  in  his  errors,  however,  Scott  25 
had  the  merit  of  unconsciousness,  which  is  fast  disap- 
pearing from  our  more  elaborate  affectations;  and, 
therefore,  though  we  regret,  we  are  not  irritated  by  his 
weakness  and  deficiency  in  true  insight.  He  really 
enjoys  his  playthings  too  naively  for  the  pleasure  not  to  30 


39§  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

be  a  little  contagious,  when  we  can  descend  from  our 
critical  dignity.  In  his  later  work,  indeed,  the  effort  be- 
comes truly  painful,  tending  more  to  the  provocation  of 
sadness  than  of  anger.  But  that  work  is  best  forgotten 
5  except  as  an  occasional  warning. 

Scott,  however,  understood,  and  nobody  has  better 
illustrated  by  example,  the  true  mode  of  connecting  past 
and  present.  Mr.  Palgrave,  whose  recognition  of  the 
charm  of  Scott's  lyrics  merits  our  gratitude,  observes  in 

10  the  notes  to  the  Golden  Treasury  that  the  songs  about 
Brignall  banks  and  Rosabelle  exemplify  "the  peculiar 
skill  with  which  Scott  employs  proper  names;"  nor,  he 
adds,  "is  there  a  surer  sign  of  high  poetical  genius." 
The  last  remark  might  possibly  be  disputed;  if  Milton 

15  possessed  the  same  talent,  so  did  Lord  Macaulay,  whose 
ballads,  admirable  as  they  are,  are  not  first-rate  poetry; 
but  the  conclusion  to  which  the  remark  points  is  one 
which  is  illustrated  by  each  of  these  cases.  The  secret 
of  the  power  is  simply  this,  that  a  man  whose  mind  is 

20  full  of  historical  associations  somehow  communicates 
us  something  of  the  sentiment  which  they  awake  in  him- 
self. Scott,  as  all  who  saw  him  tell  us,  could  never  see 
an  old  tower,  or  a  bank,  or  a  rush  of  a  stream  without 
instantly  recalling  a  boundless  collection  of  appropriate 

25  anecdotes.  He  might  be  quoted  as  a  case  in  point  by 
those  who  would  explain  all  poetical  imagination  by  the 
power  of  associating  ideas.  He  is  the  poet  of  association. 
A  proper  name  acts  upon  him  like  a  charm.  It  calls  up 
the  past  days,  the  heroes  of  the  '41,  or  the  skirmish  of 

30  Drumclog,  or  the  old  Covenanting  times,  by  a  spon- 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  399 

taneous    and    inexplicable    magic.      When    the    barest 
natural  object  is  taken  into  his  imagination,  all  manner 
of  past  fancies  and  legends  crystallize  around  it  at  once. 
Though  it  is  more  difficult  to  explain  how  the  same 
glow  which  ennobled  them  to  him  is  conveyed  to  his    5 
readers,  the  process  somehow  takes  place.     We  catch 
the  enthusiasm.    A  word,  which  strikes  us  as  a  bare  ab- 
straction in  the  report  of  the  Censor  General,  say,  or  in 
a  collection  of  poor  law  returns,  gains  an  entirely  new 
significance  when  he  touches  it  in  the  most  casual  man-  10 
ner.     A  kind  of  mellowing  atmosphere  surrounds  all 
objects  in  his  pages,  and  tinges  them  with  poetical  hues. 
Even  the  Scottish  dialect,  repulsive  to  some  ignorant 
Southrons,  becomes  musical  to  his  true  admirers.     In 
this  power  lies  one   secret   of  Scott's   most   successful  15 
writing.     Thus,   for  example,   I   often   fancy   that   the 
second  title  of  Waverley—'Tis  Sixty  Years  Since— in- 
dicates precisely  the  distance  of  time  at  which  a  roman- 
tic  novelist   should   place   himself   from   his   creations. 
They  are  just  far  enough  from  us  to  have  acquired  a  20 
certain   picturesque  coloring,   which  conceals   the   vul- 
garity, and  yet  leaves  them  living  and  intelligible  beings. 
His  best  stories  might  be  all  described  as  Tales  0}  a 
Grandfather.     They  have  the  charm  of  anecdotes  told 
to  the  narrator  by  some  old  man  who  had  himself  been  25 
part  of  what  he  describes.    Scott's  best  novels  depend, 
for  their  deep  interest,  upon  the  scenery  and  society 
with  which  he  had  been  familiar  in  his  early  days,  more 
or  less  harmonized  by  removal  to  what  we  may  call,  in  a 
different  sense  from  the  common  one,  the  twilight  of  3° 


400  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

history;  that  period,  namely,  from  which  the  broad 
glare  of  the  present  has  departed,  and  which  we  can  yet 
dimly  observe  without  making  use  of  the  dark  lantern 
of  ancient   historians,   and  accepting  the   guidance   of 

5  Dryasdust.  Dandie  Dinmont,  though  a  contemporary  of 
Scott's  youth,  represented  a  fast  perishing  phase  of 
society;  and  Balfour  of  Burley,  though  his  day  was  past, 
had  yet  left  his  mantle  with  many  spiritual  descendants 
who  were  scarcely  less  familiar.     Between  the  times  so 

10  fixed  Scott  seems  to  exhibit  his  genuine  power;  and 
within  these  limits  we  should  find  it  hard  to  name  any 
second,  or  indeed  any  third. 

Indeed,  when  we  have  gone  as  far  as  we  please  in 
denouncing  shams,  ridiculing  men  in  buff  jerkins,  and 

15  the  whole  Wardour  Street  business  of  gimcrack  and 
Brummagem  antiquities,  it  still  remains  true  that  Scott's 
great  service  was  what  we  may  call  the  vivification  of 
history.  He  made  us  feel,  it  is  generally  said,  as  no  one 
had  ever  made  us  feel  before,  that  the  men  of  the  past 

20  were  once  real  human  beings;  and  I  can  agree  if  I  am 
permitted  to  make  a  certain  distinction.  His  best  serv- 
ice, I  should  say,  was  not  so  much  in  showing  us  the 
past  as  it  was  when  it  was  present;  but  in  showing  us 
the  past  as  it  is  really  still  present.     His  knights  and 

25  crusaders  and  feudal  nobles  are  after  all  unreal,  and  the 
best  critics  felt  even  in  his  own  day  that  his  greatest 
triumphs  were  in  describing  the  Scottish  peasantry  of 
his  time.  Dandie  Dinmont  and  Jeanie  Deans  and  their 
like  are  better  than  many  Front  de  Bceufs  and  Robin 

30  Hoods.      It  is  in  dealing  with  his  own  contemporaries 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  401 

that  he  really  shows  the  imaginative  insight  which  en- 
titles him  to  be  called  a  great  creator  as  well  as  an  amus- 
ing story-teller.  But  this,  rightly  stated,  is  not  incon- 
sistent with  the  previous  statement.  For  the  special 
characteristic  of  Scott  as  distinguished  from  his  prede-  5 
cessors  is  precisely  his  clear  perception  that  the  characters 
whom  he  loved  so  well  and  described  so  vividly  were 
the  products  of  a  long  historical  evolution.  His  patriot- 
ism was  the  love  of  a  country  in  which  everything  had 
obvious  roots  in  its  previous  history.  The  stout  farmer  10 
Dinmont  was  the  descendant  of  the  old  borderers;  the 
Deanses  were  survivals  from  the  days  of  the  Covenan- 
ters or  of  John  Knox;  every  peculiarity  upon  which  he 
delighted  to  dwell  was  invested  with  all  the  charm  of 
descent  from  a  long  and  picturesque  history.  When  15 
Fielding  describes  the  squires  or  lawyers  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  he  says  nothing  to  show  that  he  was  even 
aware  of  the  existence  of  a  seventeenth,  or  still  less  of  a 
sixteenth  century.  Scott  can  describe  no  character  with- 
out assigning  to  it  its  place  in  the  social  organism  which  20 
has  been  growing  up  since  the  earliest  dawn  of  history. 
This  was,  of  course,  no  accident.  He  came  at  the  time 
when  the  little  provincial  centers  were  just  feeling  the 
first  invasion  of  the  great  movements  from  without. 
Edinburgh,  whether  quite  comparable  to  Athens  or  not,  25 
had  been  for  two  or  three  generations  a  remarkable 
center  of  intellectual  cultivation.  Hume  and  Adam 
Smith  were  only  the  most  conspicuous  members  of  a 
society  which  monopolized  pretty  well  all  the  philosophy 
which  existed  in  the  island  and  a  great  deal  of  the  his-  30 
Prose — 26 


402  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

tory  and  criticism.  In  Scott's  time  the  patriotic  feeling 
which  had  been  a  blind  instinct  was  becoming  more  or 
less  self-conscious.  The  literary  society  in  which  Scott 
was  leader  of  the  Tories,  and  Jeffrey  of  the  Whigs,  in- 
5  eluded  a  large  proportion  of  the  best  intellect  of  the  time 
and  was  sufficiently  in  contact  with  the  outside  world  to 
be  conscious  of  its  own  characteristics.  When  the  crash 
of  the  French  Revolution  came  in  Scott's  youth,  Burke 
denounced  its  a  priori  abstract  reasonings  in  the  name 

io  of  prescription.  A  traditional  order  and  belief  were 
essential,  as  he  urged,  to  the  well-being  of  every  human 
society.  What  Scott  did  afterwards  was  precisely  to 
show  by  concrete  instances,  most  vividly  depicted,  the 
value  and  interest  of  a  natural  body  of  traditions.    Like 

15  many  other  of  his  ablest  contemporaries,  he  saw  with 
alarm  the  great  movement,  of  which  the  French  Revo- 
lution was  the  obvious  embodiment,  sweeping  away  all 
manner  of  local  traditions  and  threatening  to  engulf 
the  little  society  which  still  retained  its  specific  char- 

20  acter  in  Scotland.  He  was  stirred,  too,  in  his  whole 
nature  when  any  sacrilegious  reformer  threatened  to 
sweep  away  any  part  of  the  true  old  Scottish  system. 
And  this  is,  in  fact,  the  moral  implicitly  involved  in 
Scott's  best  work.    Take  the  beggar,  for  example,  Edie 

25  Ochiltree,  the  old  "bluegown."  Beggars,  you  say,  are 
a  nuisance  and  would  be  sentenced  to  starvation  by 
Mr.  Malthus  in  the  name  of  an  abstract  principle  of 
population.  But  look,  says  Scott,  at  the  old-fashioned 
beggar  as  he  really  was.     He  had  his  place  in  society; 

30  he  was  the  depository  of  the  legends  of  the  whole  coun- 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  403 

tryside:  chatting  with  the  lairds,  the  confidential  friend 
of  fishermen,  peasants,  and  farmers;  the  oracle  in  all 
sports  and  ruler  of  village  feasts;  repaying  in  friendly 
offices  far  more  than  the  value  of  the  alms  which  he  took 
as  a  right;  a  respecter  of  old  privileges,  because  he  had  5 
privileges  himself;  and  ready  when  the  French  came  to 
take  his  part  in  fighting  for  the  old  country.  There  can 
be  no  fear  for  a  country,  says  Scott,  where  even  the  beg- 
gar is  as  ready  to  take  up  arms  as  the  noble.  The  blue- 
gown,  in  short,  is  no  waif  and  stray,  no  product  of  social  10 
corruption,  or  mere  obnoxious  parasite,  but  a  genuine 
member  of  the  fabric,  who  could  respect  himself  and 
scorn  servility  as  much  as  the  highest  members  of  the 
social  hierarchy.  Scott,  as  Lockhart  tells  us,  was  most 
grievously  wounded  by  the  insults  of  the  Radical  mob  15 
in  Selkirk,  who  cried  "Burke  Sir  Walter!"  in  the  place 
where  all  men  had  loved  and  honored  him.  It  was  the 
meeting  of  the  old  and  new,  and  the  revelation  to  Scott 
in  brutal  terms  of  the  new  spirit  which  was  destroying 
all  the  old  social  ties.  Scott  and  Wordsworth  and  20 
Coleridge  and  Southey  and  their  like  saw  in  fact  the  ap- 
proach of  that  industrial  revolution,  as  we  call  it  now, 
which  for  good  or  evil  has  been  ever  since  developing. 
The  Radicals  denounced  them  as  mere  sentimentalists; 
the  solid  Whigs,  who  fancied  that  the  revolution  was  25 
never  to  get  beyond  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  laughed 
at  them  as  mere  obstructives;  by  us,  who,  whatever  our 
opinions,  speak  with  the  advantage  of  later  experience, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  such  Conservatism  had  its 
justification,  and  that  good  and  far-seeing  men  might  30 


404  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

well  look  with  alarm  at  changes  whose  far-reaching 
consequences  cannot  yet  be  estimated.  Scott,  mean- 
while, is  the  incomparable  painter  of  the  sturdy  race 
which  he  loved  so  well — a  race  high-spirited,  loyal  to  its 
5  principles,  surpassingly  energetic,  full  of  strong  affec- 
tions and  manly  spirits,  if  crabbed,  bigoted,  and  capable 
of  queer  perversity  and  narrow  self-conceit.  Nor,  if 
we  differ  from  his  opinions,  can  any  one  who  desires  to 
take  a  reasonable  view  of  history  doubt  the  interest 

io  and  value  of  the  conceptions  involved.  Scott  was  really 
the  first  imaginative  observer  who  saw  distinctly  how 
the  national  type  of  character  is  the  product  of  past  his- 
tory, and  embodies  all  the  great  social  forces  by  which 
it  has  slowly  shaped  itself.    That  is  the  new  element  in 

15  his  portraiture  of  human  life;  and  we  may  pardon  him 
if  he  set  rather  too  high  a  value  upon  the  picturesque 
elements  which  he  had  been  the  first  to  recognize.  One 
of  the  acutest  of  recent  writers  upon  politics,  the  late 
Mr.  Bagehot,  has  insisted  upon  the  immense  value  of 

20  what  he  called  a  "  solid  cake  of  customs,"  and  the  thought 
is  more  or  less  familiar  to  every  writer  of  the  evolutionist 
way  of  thinking.  Scott,  without  any  philosophy  to  speak 
of,  political  or  otherwise,  saw  and  recognized  intui- 
tively a  typical  instance.    He  saw  how  much  the  social 

25  fabric  had  been  woven  out  of  ancient  tradition;  and  he 
made  others  see  it  more  clearly  than  could  be  done  by 
any  abstract  reasoner. 

When  naturalists  wish  to  preserve  a  skeleton,  they 
bury  an  animal  in  an  ant-hill  and  dig  him  up  after  many 

30  days  with  all  the  perishable  matter  fairly  eaten  away. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  405 

That  is  the  process  which  great  men  have  to  undergo. 
A  vast  multitude  of  insignificant,  unknown,  and  uncon- 
scious critics  destroy  what  has  no  genuine  power  of  re- 
sistance, and  leave  the  remainder  for  posterity.    Much 
disappears  in  every  case,  and  it  is  a  question,  perhaps,    5 
whether  the  firmer  parts  of  Scott's  reputation  will  be 
sufficiently  coherent  to  resist  after  the  removal  of  the 
rubbish.    We  must  admit  that  even  his  best  work  is  of 
more  or  less  mixed  value,  and  that  the  test  will  be  a 
severe  one.    Yet  we  hope,  not  only  for  reasons  already  10 
suggested,  but  for  one  which  remains  to  be  expressed. 
The  ultimate  source  of  pleasure  derivable  from  all  art 
is  that  it  brings  you  into  communication  with  the  artist. 
What  you  really  love  in  the  picture  or  the  poem  is  the 
painter  or  the  poet  whom  it  brings  into  sympathy  with  15 
you  across  the  gulf  of  time.    He  tells  you  what  are  the 
thoughts  which  some  fragment  of  natural  scenery,  or 
some  incident  of  human  life,  excited  in  a  mind  greatly 
wiser  and  more  perceptive  than  your  own.    A  dramatist 
or  a  novelist  professes  to  describe  different  actors  on  his  20 
little  scene,  but  he  is  really  setting  forth  the  varying 
phases  of  his  own  mind.    And  so  Dandie  Dinmont,  or 
the  Antiquary,  or  Balfour  of  Burley,  is  merely  the  con- 
ductor through  which  Scott's  personal  magnetism  affects 
our   own   natures.     And  certainly,   whatever   faults   a  25 
critic  may  discover  in  the  work,  it  may  be  said  that  no 
work  in  our  literature  places  us  in  communication  with 
a  manlier  or  more  lovable  nature.    Scott,  indeed,  setting 
up  as  the  landed  proprietor  at  Abbotsford  and  solacing 
himself  with  painted  plaster  of  Paris  instead  of  carved  3° 


406  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

oak,  does  not  strike  us,  any  more  than  he  does  Carlyle, 
as  a  very  noble  phenomenon.  But  luckily  for  us,  we 
have  also  the  Scott  who  must  have  been  the  most  charm- 
ing of  all  conceivable  companions;  the  Scott  who  was 
5  idolized  even  by  a  judicious  pig;  the  Scott,  who,  unlike 
the  irritable  race  of  literary  magnates  in  general,  never 
lost  a  friend,  and  whose  presence  diffused  an  equable 
glow  of  kindly  feeling  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  social 
system  which  gravitated  round  him.     He  was  not  pre- 

10  cisely  brilliant;  nobody,  so  far  as  we  know,  who  wrote 
so  many  sentences  has  left  so  few  that  have  fixed  them- 
selves upon  us  as  established  commonplaces;  beyond 
that  unlucky  phrase  about  "my  name  being  MacGregor 
and  my  foot  being  on  my  native  heath" — which  is  not 

15  a  very  admirable  sentiment — I  do  not  at  present  re- 
member a  single  gem  of  this  kind.  Landor,  I  think, 
said  that  in  the  whole  of  Scott's  poetry  there  was  only 
one  good  line,  that,  namely,  in  the  poem  about  Hel- 
vellyn  referring  to  the  dog  of  the  lost  man — 

20  "  When  the  wind  waved  his  garments,  how  oft  didst  thou  start ! " 

Scott  is  not  one  of  the  coruscating  geniuses,  throw- 
ing out  epigrams  at  every  turn,  and  sparkling  with  good 
things.  But  the  poetry,  which  was  first  admired  to 
excess  and  then  rejected  with  undue  contempt,  is  now 
25  beginning  to  find  its  due  level.  It  is  not  poetry  of  the 
first  order.  It  is  not  the  poetry  of  deep  meditation  or 
of  rapt  enthusiasm.  Much  that  was  once  admired  has 
now  become  rather  offensive  than  otherwise.  And  yet 
it  lias  a  charm,  which  becomes  more  sensible  the  more 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  407 

familiar  we  grow  with  it,  the  charm  of  unaffected  and 
spontaneous  love  of  nature;  and  not  only  is  it  perfectly 
in  harmony  with  the  nature  which  Scott  loved  so  well, 
but  it  is  still  the  best  interpreter  of  the  sound  healthy 
love  of  wild  scenery.  Wordsworth,  no  doubt,  goes  5 
deeper;  and  Byron  is  more  vigorous;  and  Shelley  more 
ethereal.  But  it  is,  and  will  remain,  a  good  thing  to 
have  a  breath  from  the  Cheviots  brought  straight  into 
London  streets,  as  Scott  alone  can  do  it.  When  Wash- 
ington Irving  visited  Scott,  they  had  an  amicable  dis-  10 
pute  as  to  the  scenery:  Irving,  as  became  an  American, 
complaining  of  the  absence  of  forests;  Scott  declaring 
his  love  for  "his  honest  gray  hills,"  and  saying  that  if 
he  did  not  see  the  heather  once  a  year  he  thought  he 
should  die.  Everybody  who  has  refreshed  himself  with  15 
mountain  and  moor  this  summer  should  feel  how  much 
we  owe,  and  how  much  more  we  are  likely  to  owe  in 
future,  to  the  man  who  first  inoculated  us  with  his  own 
enthusiasm,  and  who  is  still  the  best  interpreter  of  the 
"honest  gray  hills."  Scott's  poetical  faculty  may,  per-  20 
haps,  be  more  felt  in  his  prose  than  his  verse.  The  fact 
need  not  be  decided;  but  as  we  read  the  best  of  his  novels 
we  feel  ourselves  transported  to  the  "distant  Cheviot's 
blue;"  mixing  with  the  sturdy  dalesmen,  and  the  tough 
indomitable  Puritans  of  his  native  land;  for  their  sake  25 
we  can  forgive  the  exploded  feudalism  and  the  faded 
romance  which  he  attempted  with  less  success  to  gal- 
vanize into  life.  The  pleasure  of  that  healthy  open-air 
life,  with  that  manly  companion,  is  not  likely  to  diminish; 
and  Scott  as  its  exponent  may  still  retain  a  hold  upon  30 


408  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

our  affections  which  would  have  been  long  ago  for- 
feited if  he  had  depended  entirely  on  his  romantic  non- 
sense. We  are  rather  in  the  habit  of  talking  about  a 
healthy  animalism,  and  try  most  elaborately  to  be  simple 

5  and  manly.  When  we  turn  from  our  modern  professors 
in  that  line,  who  affect  a  total  absence  of  affectation,  to 
Scott's  Dandie  Dinmonts  and  Edie  Ochiltrees,  we  see 
the  difference  between  the  sham  and  the  reality,  and 
fancy  that  Scott  may  still  have  a  lesson  or  two  to  preach 

10  to  this  generation.  Those  to  come  must  take  care  of 
themselves. 


JOHN   MORLEY 

[John  Morley  was  born  at  Blackburn  in  Lancashire,  Eng/and. 
December  24,  1838.  After  being  graduated  at  Lincoln  College, 
Oxford,  he  went  to  London,  where  he  began  his  literary  work  as  an 
editor.  In  1867,  he  succeeded  Lewes  on  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
which  he  edited  till  1882.  In  1883,  he  assumed  the  editorship  of 
Macmillatis  Magazine.  During  this  period  some  of  his  best 
known  books  were  published  :  Edmund  Burke,  an  historical  study 
(1867);  Critical  Miscellanies  (1871-1877) ;  Voltaire  (1872);  Rous- 
seau ( 1873) ;  Diderot  and  the  Encyclopedists  ( 1878) ;  Life  ofCobden 
(1881).  In  1878,  the  Macmillans  began  the  "English  Men  of 
Letters  Series,"  which  Morley  edited  and  to  which  he  contributed 
a  Life  of  Burke  (1879).  In  '883,  he  was  elected  to  Parliament  and 
has  since  been  prominent  in  English  public  life.  He  was  raised  to 
the  peerage  as  Viscount  Morley  of  Blackburn  in  1908.  Among 
his  later  works  are  Walpole  (1889);  Cromwell  (1900);  Life  of 
Gladstone  (1903);   Critical  Miscellanies  (1908).] 

John  Morley  is  better  known  as  an  English  states- 
man than  as  a  critical  essayist.  But  the  statesman  has 
never  lost  faith  in  the  potency  of  letters,  just  as  the 
critic  and  editor  has  never  failed  to  find  interest  in  the 
social  aspects  of  literature.  Any  writer  whose  life  and 
work  are  closely  associated  with  the  political  and  so- 
cial movements  of  his  time  is  sure  to  win  the  attention 
of  John  Morley.  This  explains  his  preference  for  men  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  chiefly  for  French  writers  of 
that  period,  for  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  Diderot,  Condorcet 
— men  who  are  rightly  understood  only  in  relation  to 
the  society  of  their  day. 

In    Morley's    criticism,    therefore,   there    is   a    basis 

409 


4IO  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

of  ethical  seriousness,  a  predetermined  purpose  to 
judge  books  as  the  reflection  of  serious  moral  truths. 
He  defines  literature  thus:  "Literature  consists  of  all 
the  books — and  they  are  not  so  many — where  moral 
truth  and  human  passion  are  touched  with  a  certain 
largeness,  sanity  and  attraction  of  form."  "Art,"  he 
says,  "is  only  the  transformation  into  ideal  and  imagi- 
native shapes  of  a  predominant  system  and  philoso- 
phy of  life."  With  Morley  this  philosophy  always  has 
reference  to  man  in  relation  to  his  social  environment; 
for  with  abstract  truths,  with  doctrines,  esoteric  and 
erudite,  he  has  nothing  to  do.  Byron  is  of  interest  to 
him  chiefly  because  of  the  "subordination  in  his  mind 
of  aesthetic  to  social  intention."  Carlyle  "  has  no  direc- 
tion to  give,"  and  Emerson  "does  almost  as  little  as 
Carlyle  himself  to  fire  men  with  faith  in  social  progress 
as  the  crown  of  human  endeavor."  It  is  the  man  of 
letters  with  "that  active  interest  in  public  affairs," 
which  is  the  "only  sure  safeguard  against  inhuman 
egotism,"  whom  Morley  delights  to  praise. 

This  conception  of  literature  underlies  his  attitude 
toward  Macaulay.  He  begins  by  asking:  "What  kind 
of  significance  or  value  belongs  to  Lord  Macaulay's 
achievements,  and  to  what  place  has  he  claim  among 
the  forces  of  English  literature?"  After  a  brilliant  an- 
alysis of  Macaulay's  genius,  he  returns  to  the  answer 
to  his  question:  "Nor  can  it  be  enough  for  enduring 
fame  in  any  age  merely  to  throw  a  golden  halo  round 
the  secularity  of  the  hour.  .  .  .  If  we  think  what 
a  changed  sense  is  already  given  to  criticism,  what  a 
different  conception  now  presides  over  history,  .  .  . 
we  cannot  help  feeling  that  [Macaulay]  ...  is  the 
hero  of  a  past  which  is  already  remote,  and  that  he  did 
litde  to  make  men  fitted  to  face  a  present  of  which, 
close  as  it  was  to  him,  he  seems  hardly  to  have  dreamed." 
The  final  adverse  judgment  is  thus  seen  to  be  strictly 


JOHN    MORLEY  41I 

in  accord  with  Morley's  notion  of  literature  and  men 
of  letters. 

For  this  reason  the  spirit  of  the  essay  is  unsympathetic. 
Macaulay,  as  John  Morley  appraises  him,  is  unanalytic, 
unmeditative,  and  lacks  richness,  depth,  suggestion. 
"His  ascendency  is  due  to  literary  pomp,  not  to  fecun- 
dity of  spirit."  In  his  style  are  wanting  the  qualities 
which  for  Morley  connote  the  social  temperament. 
Even  when  he  praises  the  critic  is  sometimes  almost  iron- 
ically equivocal.  Macaulay 's  "genius  for  narration" 
becomes  "  mere  picturesqueness,"  his  gift  of  "  noble 
commonplace  "  sinks  to  "  ostentatious  common  sense  of  a 
slightly  coarse  sort."  Macaulay  "  has  been  prized  less  as 
a  historian  proper  than  as  a  master  of  literary  art." 

Morley  is  safest  and  best  in  his  judgments  upon  Ma- 
caulay as  an  essayist,  whom,  indeed,  he  seems  mainly 
to  be  considering  throughout  the  essay.  Macaulay's 
amazing  popularity,  his  powers  of  narration,  his  exact 
accord  with  the  average  sentiment  of  his  day,  his  manly, 
direct,  clear  style,  receive  on  the  whole  a  just  and  cogent 
appreciation. 

In  his  own  style  John  Morley  has  committed  some  of 
the  sins  with  which  he  charges  Macaulay.  It  is  a 
style,  brisk,  brilliant,  vital,  and  direct,  but  it  is  deficient 
in  modulation  and  in  the  "  soft  play  of  life."  In  this  very 
essay  it  suggests  Macaulay  in  its  positivity  and  unquali- 
fied assertiveness,  its  excess  of  superlative,  its  tendency 
to  the  balanced  and  parallel  forms  of  construction, — char- 
acteristics which  account  in  part  for  the  feeling  that 
there  is  a  lack  of  detachment  and  fairness.  For  example, 
Morley  asserts  without  proper  restriction  that  Ma- 
caulay was  hurried  and  slap-dash  in  his  methods  of 
composition;  whereas  Macaulay  as  a  writer  of  history 
was  infinitely  painstaking  in  correction  and  revision. 
Morley's  own  style  shows,  moreover,  a  weakly  con- 
trolled   tendency    to    figurativeness,    a    tendency    that 


412  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

sometimes  results  in  strained  or  mixed  tropes.  Never- 
theless, as  a  medium  of  expression,  his  style  is  a 
notable  example  of  effectiveness.  In  the  following  essay 
there  may  be  noted  the  use  of  varied  and  supple  phrase, 
a  copiousness  and  appositeness  of  diction,  and  a  con- 
trol of  material  that  convincingly  testify  to  Morley's 
distinction  as  a  writer.  His  style,  in  short,  is  an  ex- 
ample of  what  he  approves  in  the  writings  of  others: 
a  "  speech  that  is  strong  by  natural  force,  an  utterance 
without  trick,  without  affectation,  without  mannerism." 


MACAULAY 

It  is  told  of  Strafford  that  before  reading  any  book 
for  the  first  time,  he  would  call  for  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
then  proceed  to  write  down  upon  it  some  sketch  of  the 
ideas  that  he  already  had  upon  the  subject  of  the  book, 

5  and  of  the  questions  that  he  expected  to  find  answered. 
No  one  who  has  been  at  the  pains  to  try  the  experiment, 
will  doubt  the  usefulness  of  Strafford's  practice:  it  gives 
to  our  acquisitions  from  books  clearness  and  reality,  a 
right  place  and  an  independent  shape.    At  this  moment 

10  we  are  all  looking  for  the  biography  of  an  illustrious 
man  of  letters,  written  by  a  near  kinsman,  who  is  him- 
self naturally  endowed  with  keen  literary  interests,  and 
who  has  invigorated  his  academic  cultivation  by  prac- 
tical engagement  in  considerable  affairs  of  public  busi- 

15  ness.  Before  taking  up  Mr.  Trevelyan's  two  volumes, 
it  is  perhaps  worth  while,  on  Strafford's  plan,  to  ask 
ourselves  shortly  what  kind  of  significance  or  value  be- 
longs to  Lord  Macaulay's  achievements,  and  to  what 


MACAULAY  4J3 

place  he  has  a  claim  among  the  forces  of  English  litera- 
ture. It  is  seventeen  years  since  he  died,  and  those  of 
us  who  never  knew  him  nor  ever  saw  him  now  think 
about  his  work  with  that  perfect  detachment  which  is 
impossible  in  the  case  of  actual  contemporaries.  5 

That  Macaulay  comes  in  the  very  front  rank  in  the 
mind  of  the  ordinary  bookbuyer  of  our  day  is  quite 
certain.  It  is  an  amusement  with  some  people  to  put 
an  imaginary  case  of  banishment  to  a  desert  island,  with 
the  privilege  of  choosing  the  works  of  one  author,  and  10 
no  more,  to  furnish  literary  companionship  and  refresh- 
ment for  the  rest  of  a  lifetime.  Whom  would  one  select 
for  this  momentous  post?  Clearly  the  author  must  be 
voluminous,  for  days  on  desert  islands  are  many  and 
long;  he  must  be  varied  in  his  moods,  his  topics,  and  his  15 
interests;  he  must  have  a  great  deal  to  say,  and  must 
have  a  power  of  saying  it  that  shall  arrest  a  depressed 
and  dolorous  spirit.  Englishmen,  of  course,  would 
with  mechanical  unanimity  call  for  Shakespeare;  Ger- 
mans could  hardly  hesitate  about  Goethe;  and  a  sen-  20 
sible  Frenchman  would  pack  up  the  ninety  volumes 
of  Voltaire.  It  would  be  at  least  as  interesting  to  know 
the  object  of  a  second  choice,  supposing  the  tyrant  were 
in  his  clemency  to  give  us  two  authors.  In  the  case  of 
Englishmen  there  is  some  evidence  as  to  a  popular  25 
preference.  A  recent  traveler  in  Australia  informs  us 
that  the  three  books  which  he  found  on  every  squatter's 
shelf,  and  which  at  last  he  knew  before  he  crossed  the 
threshold  that  he  should  be  sure  to  find,  were  Shake- 
speare, the  Bible,  and  Macaulay's  Essays.    This  is  only  3c 


414  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

an  illustration  of  a  feeling  about  Macaulay  that  has 
been  almost  universal  among  the  English-speaking 
peoples. 

We  may  safely  say  that  no  man  obtains  and  keeps 
5  for  a  great  many  years  such  a  position  as  this,  unless  he 
is  possessed  of  some  very  extraordinary  qualities,  or 
else  of  common  qualities  in  a  very  uncommon  and  ex- 
traordinary degree.  The  world,  says  Goethe,  is  more 
willing  to  endure  the  Incongruous  than  to  be  patient 

io  under  the  Insignificant.  Even  those  who  set  least  value 
on  what  Macaulay  does  for  his  readers,  may  still  feel 
bound  to  distinguish  the  elements  that  have  given  him 
his  vast  popularity.  The  inquiry  is  not  a  piece  of  merely 
literary  criticism,  for  it  is  impossible  that  the  work  of  so 

15  imposing  a  writer  should  have  passed  through  the  hands 
of  every  man  and  woman  of  his  time  who  has  even  the 
humblest  pretensions  to  cultivation,  without  leaving  a 
very  decided  mark  on  their  habits  both  of  thought  and 
expression.     As  a  plain  matter  of  observation,  it  is  im- 

20  possible  to  take  up  a  newspaper  or  a  review,  for  instance, 
without  perceiving  Macaulay's  influence  both  in  the 
style  and  the  temper  of  modern  journalism,  and  journa- 
lism in  its  turn  acts  upon  the  style  and  temper  of  its 
enormous  uncounted  public.     The  man  who  now  suc- 

25  ceeds  in  catching  the  ear  of  the  writers  of  leading  ar- 
ticles, is  in  the  position  that  used  to  be  held  by  the 
head  of  some  great  theological  school,  whence  disciples 
swarmed  forth  to  reproduce  in  ten  thousand  pulpits  the 
arguments,  the  opinions,  the  images,  the  tricks,  the  ges 

io  tures,  and  the  mannerisms  of  a  single  master. 


MACAULAY  415 

Two  men  of  very  different  kinds  have  thoroughly  im- 
pressed the  journalists  of  our  time,  Macaulay  and  Mr. 
Mill.  Mr.  Carlyle  we  do  not  add  to  them;  he  is,  as  the 
Germans  call  Jean  Paul,  der  Einzige.  And  he  is  a  poet, 
while  the  other  two  are  in  their  degrees  serious  and  5 
argumentative  writers,  dealing  in  different  ways  with  the 
great  topics  that  constitute  the  matter  and  business  of 
daily  discussion.  They  are  both  of  them  practical 
enough  to  interest  men  handling  real  affairs,  and  yet 
they  are  general  or  theoretical  enough  to  supply  such  10 
men  with  the  large  and  ready  commonplaces  which  are 
so  useful  to  a  profession  that  has  to  produce  literary 
graces  and  philosophical  decorations  at  an  hour's  no- 
tice. It  might  perhaps  be  said  of  these  two  distinguished 
men  that  our  public  writers  owe  most  of  their  virtues  to  15 
the  one,  and  most  of  their  vices  to  the  other.  If  Mill 
taught  some  of  them  to  reason,  Macaulay  tempted  more 
of  them  to  declaim:  if  Mill  set  an  example  of  patience, 
tolerance,  and  fair  examination  of  hostile  opinions, 
Macaulay  did  much  to  encourage  oracular  arrogance,  20 
and  a  rather  too  thrasonical  complacency;  if  Mill  sowed 
ideas  of  the  great  economic,  political,  and  moral  bear- 
ings of  the  forces  of  society,  Macaulay  trained  a  taste 
for  superficial  particularities,  trivial  circumstantialities  of 
local  color,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  pseudo-  25 
picturesque. 

Of  course  nothing  so  obviously  untrue  is  meant  as 
that  this  is  an  account  of  Macaulay's  own  quality. 
What  is  empty  pretension  in  the  leading  article  was 
often  a  warranted  self-assertion  in  Macaulay;  what  is  3° 


41 6  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

little  more  than  testiness  in  it,  is  in  him  often  a  generous 
indignation.  What  became  and  still  remain  in  those 
who  have  made  him  their  model,  substantive  and  or- 
ganic vices,  the  foundation  of  literary  character  and 
5  intellectual  temper,  were  in  him  the  incidental  defects  of 
a  vigorous  genius.  And  we  have  to  take  a  man  of  his 
power  and  vigor  with  all  his  drawbacks,  for  the  one  are 
wrapped  up  in  the  other.  Charles  Fox  used  to  apply  to 
Burke  a  passage  that  Quintilian  wrote  about  Ovid.    Si 

io  animi  sui  affectibus  temperare  quam  indulgere  maluis- 
set,  quoted  Fox,  quid  vir  iste  pmstare  non  potueritl 
But  this  is  really  not  at  all  certain  either  of  Ovid,  or 
Burke,  or  any  one  else.  It  suits  moralists  to  tell  us  that 
excellence  lies  in  the  happy  mean  and  nice  balance  of 

15  our  faculties  and  impulses,  and  perhaps  in  so  far  as  our 
own  contentment  and  an  easy  passage  through  life  are 
involved,  what  they  tell  us  is  true.  But  for  making  a  mark 
in  the  world,  for  rising  to  supremacy  in  art  or  thought 
or  affairs — whatever  those  aims  may  be  worth — a  man 

20  possibly  does  better  to  indulge  rather  than  to  chide  or 
grudge  his  genius,  and  to  pay  the  penalties  for  his  weak- 
nesses rather  than  run  any  risk  of  mutilating  those  strong 
faculties  of  which  they  happen  to  be  an  inseparable  ac- 
cident.   Versatility  is  not  a  universal  gift  among  the  able 

25  men  of  the  world;  not  many  of  them  have  so  many  gifts 
of  the  spirit  as  to  be  free  to  choose  by  what  pass  they 
will  climb  "the  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines 
afar."  If  Macaulay  had  applied  himself  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  a  balanced  judgment,  of  tempered  phrases,  and  of 

30  relative  propositions,  he  would  probably  have  sunk  into 


MAC AULA Y  417 

an  impotent  tameness.  A  great  pugilist  has  sometimes 
been  converted  from  the  error  of  his  ways,  and  been  led 
zealously  to  cherish  gospel  graces,  but  the  hero's  dis- 
courses have  seldom  been  edifying.  Macaulay,  divested 
of  all  the  exorbitancies  of  his  spirit  and  his  style,  would  5 
have  been  a  Samson  shorn  of  the  locks  of  his  strength. 

Although,  however,  a  writer  of  marked  quality  may 
do  well  to  let  his  genius  develop  its  spontaneous  forces 
without  too  assiduous  or  vigilant  repression,  trusting  to 
other  writers  of  equal  strength  in  other  directions,  and  10 
to  the  general  fitness  of  things  and  operation  of  time, 
to  redress  the  balance,  still  it  is  the  task  of  criticism  in 
counting  up  the  contributions  of  one  of  these  strong  men 
to  examine  the  mischiefs  no  less  than  the  benefits  inci- 
dent to  their  work.    There  is  no  puny  carping  nor  cavil-  15 
ing  in  the  process.     It  is  because  such  men  are  strong 
that  they  are  able  to  do  harm,  and  they  may  injure  the 
taste  and  judgment  of  a  whole  generation,  just  because 
they  are  never  mediocre.    That  is  implied  in  strength. 
Macaulay  is  not  to  be  measured  now  merely  as  if  he  were  2c 
the  author  of  a  new  book.    His  influence  has  been  a  dis- 
tinct literary  force,  and  in  an  age  of  reading,  this  is  to 
be  a  distinct  force  in  deciding  the  temper,  the  process, 
the  breadth,  of  men's  opinions,  no  less  than  the  manner 
of  expressing  them.    It  is  no  new  observation  that  the  25 
influence  of  an  author  becomes  in  time  something  apart 
from  his  books,  and  that  a  certain  generalized  or  ab- 
stract personality  impresses  itself  on  our  minds,  long 
after  we  have  forgotten  the  details  of  his  opinions,  the 
arguments  by  which  he  enforced  them,  and  even,  what  30 
Prose — 27 


418  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

are  usually  the  last  to  escape  us,  the  images  by  which 
he  illustrated  them.  Phrases  and  sentences  are  a  mask: 
but  we  detect  the  features  of  the  man  behind  the  mask. 
This  personality  of  a  favorite  author  is  a  real  and  power- 
5  ful  agency.  Unconsciously  we  are  infected  with  his 
humors;  we  apply  his  methods;  we  find  ourselves  copy- 
ing the  rhythm  and  measure  of  his  periods;  we  wonder 
how  he  would  have  acted,  or  thought,  or  spoken  in  our 
circumstances.    Usually  a  strong  writer  leaves  a  special 

10  mark  in  some  particular  region  of  mental  activity:  the 
final  product  of  him  is  to  fix  some  persistent  religious 
mood,  or  some  decisive  intellectual  bias,  or  else  some 
trick  of  the  tongue.  Now  Macaulay  has  contributed  no 
philosophic  ideas  to  the  speculative  stock,  nor  has  he 

15  developed  any  one  great  historic  or  social  truth.  His 
work  is  always  full  of  a  high  spirit  of  manliness,  probity, 
and  honor;  but  he  is  not  of  that  small  band  to  whom 
we  may  apply  Mackintosh's  thrice  and  four  times  en- 
viable panegyric  on  the  eloquence  of  Dugald  Stewart, 

20  that  its  peculiar  glory  consisted  in  having  "breathed  the 
love  of  virtue  into  whole  generations  of  pupils."  He  has 
painted  many  striking  pictures,  and  imparted  a  certain 
reality  to  our  conception  of  many  great  scenes  of  the 
past.    He  did  good  service  in  banishing  once  for  all  those 

25  sentimental  Jacobite  leanings  and  prejudices  which 
had  been  kept  alive  by  the  sophistry  of  the  most  popular 
of  historians,  and  the  imagination  of  the  most  popular 
of  romance  writers.  But  where  he  set  his  stamp  has 
been  upon  style;  style  in  its  widest  sense,  not  merely 

30  on  the  grammar  and  mechanism  of  writing,  but  on  what 


MACAULAY  4X9 

De  Quincey  described  as  its  organology;  style,  that  is  to 
say,  in  its  relation  to  ideas  and  feelings,  its  commerce 
with  thought,  and  its  reaction  on  what  one  may  call  the 
temper  or  conscience  of  the  intellect. 

Let  no  man  suppose  that  it  matters  little  whether  the  5 
most  universally  popular  of  the  serious  authors  of  a  gen- 
eration— and  Macaulay  was  nothing  less  than  this — 
affects  style  coupe  or  style  soutenn.  The  critic  of  style 
is  not  the  dancing  master,  declaiming  on  the  deep  in- 
effable things  that  lie  in  a  minuet.  He  is  not  the  virtuoso  10 
of  supines  and  gerundives.  The  morality  of  style  goes 
deeper  "than  dull  fools  suppose."  When  Comte  took 
pains  to  prevent  any  sentence  exceeding  two  lines  of  his 
manuscript  or  five  of  print;  to  restrict  every  paragraph 
to  seven  sentences;  to  exclude  every  hiatus  between  two  15 
sentences  or  even  between  two  paragraphs;  and  never 
to  reproduce  any  word,  except  the  auxiliary  monosyl- 
lables, in  two  consecutive  sentences;  he  justified  his 
literary  solicitude  by  insisting  on  the  wholesomeness  alike 
to  heart  and  intelligence  of  submission  to  artificial  in-  20 
stitutions.  He  felt,  after  he  had  once  mastered  the  habit 
of  the  new  yoke,  that  it  became  the  source  of  continual 
and  unforeseeable  improvements  even  in  thought,  and 
he  perceived  that  the  reason  why  verse  is  a  higher  kind 
of  literary  perfection  than  prose,  is  that  verse  imposes  25 
a  greater  number  of  rigorous  forms.  We  may  add  that 
verse  itself  is  perfected,  in  the  hands  of  men  of  poetic 
genius,  in  proportion  to  the  severity  of  this  mechanical 
regulation.  Where  Pope  or  Racine  had  one  rule  of 
meter,  Victor  Hugo  has  twenty,  and  he  observes  them  jo 


420  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

as  rigorously  as  an  algebraist  or  an  astronomer  observes 
the  rules  of  calculation  or  demonstration.  One,  then, 
who  touches  the  style  of  a  generation  acquires  no  trifling 
authority  over  its  thought  and  temper,  as  well  as  over 
5  the  length  of  its  sentences. 

The  first  and  most  obvious  secret  of  Macaulay's 
place  on  popular  bookshelves  is  that  he  has  a  true  genius 
for  narration,  and  narration  will  always  in  the  eyes  not 
only  of  our  squatters  in  the  Australian  bush,  but  of  the 

10  many  all  over  the  world,  stand  first  among  literary 
gifts.  The  common  run  of  plain  men,  as  has  been  no- 
ticed since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  are  as  eager  as 
children  for  a  story,  and  like  children  they  will  embrace 
the  man  who  will  tell  them  a  story,  with  abundance  of 

15  details  and  plenty  of  color,  and  a  realistic  assurance  that 
it  is  no  mere  make-believe.  Macaulay  never  stops  to 
brood  over  an  incident  or  a  character,  with  an  inner  eye 
intent  on  penetrating  to  the  lowest  depth  of  motive  and 
cause,  to  the  furthest  complexity  of  impulse,  calculation, 

20  and  subtle  incentive.  The  spirit  of  analysis  is  not  in 
him,  and  the  divine  spirit  of  meditation  is  not  in  him. 
His  whole  mind  runs  in  action  and  movement;  it  busies 
itself  with  eager  interest  in  all  objective  particulars. 
He  is  seized  by  the  external  and  the  superficial,  and 

25  revels  in  every  detail  that  appeals  to  the  five  senses. 
"The  brilliant  Macaulay,"  said  Emerson,  with  slight 
exaggeration,  "who  expresses  the  tone  of  the  English 
governing  classes  of  the  day,  explicitly  teaches  that  good 
means  good  to  eat,  good  to  wear,  material  commodity." 


MACAULAY  42 1 

So  ready  a  faculty  of  exultation  in  the  exceeding  great 
glories  of  taste  and  touch,  of  loud  sound  and  glittering 
spectacle,  is  a  gift  of  the  utmost  service  to  the  narrator 
who  craves  immense  audiences.  Let  it  be  said  that  if 
Macaulay  exults  in  the  details  that  go  to  our  five  senses,  5 
his  sensuousness  is  always  clean,  manly,  and  fit  for 
honest  daylight  and  the  summer  sun.  There  is  none 
of  that  curious  odor  of  autumnal  decay  that  clings  to 
the  passion  of  a  more  modern  school  for  color  and  flavor 
and  the  enumerated  treasures  of  subtle  indulgence.  10 

Mere  picturesqueness,  however,  is  a  minor  qualifica- 
tion compared  with  another  quality  which  everybody 
assumes  himself  to  have,  but  which  is  in  reality  extremely 
uncommon;  the  quality,  I  mean,  of  telling  a  tale  directly 
and  in  straightforward  order.  In  speaking  of  Hallam,  15 
Macaulay  complained  that  Gibbon  had  brought  into 
fashion  an  unpleasant  trick  of  telling  a  story  by  impli- 
cation and  allusion.  This  provoking  obliquity  has  cer- 
tainly increased  rather  than  declined  since  Hallam's  day, 
and  it  has  reached  its  height  and  climax  in  the  latest  20 
addition  of  all  to  our  works  of  popular  history,  Mr. 
Green's  clever  book  upon  the  English  People.  Mr. 
Froude,  it  is  true,  whatever  may  be  his  shortcomings 
on  the  side  of  sound  moral  and  political  judgment,  has 
admirable  gifts  in  the  way  of  straightforward  narration,  25 
and  Mr.  Freeman,  when  he  does  not  press  too  hotly 
after  emphasis  and  abstains  from  overloading  his  ac- 
count with  superabundance  of  detail,  is  usually  excel- 
lent in  the  way  of  direct  description.  Still,  it  is  not  merely 
because  these  two  writers  are  alive  and  Macaulay  is  not,  30 


422  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

that  most  people  would  say  of  him  that  he  is  unequaled 
in  our  time  in  his  mastery  of  the  art  of  letting  us  know 
in  an  express  and  unmistakable  way  exactly  what  it  was 
that  happened,  though  it  is  quite  true  that  in  many  por- 
5  tions  of  his  too  elaborated  History  0}  William  the  Third 
he  describes  a  large  number  of  events  about  which,  I 
think,  no  sensible  man  can  in  the  least  care  either  how 
they  happened,  or  whether  indeed  they  happened  at  all 
or  not. 

10  Another  reason  why  people  have  sought  Macaulay  is 
that  he  has  in  one  way  or  another  something  to  tell  them 
about  many  of  the  most  striking  personages  and  interest- 
ing events  in  the  history  of  mankind.  And  he  does  really 
tell  them  something.    If  any  one  will  be  at  the  trouble 

15  to  count  up  the  number  of  those  names  that  belong  to  the 
world  and  time,  about  which  Macaulay  has  found  not 
merely  something,  but  something  definite  and  pointed 
to  say,  he  will  be  astonished  to  see  how  large  a  portion 
of  the  wide  historic  realm  is  traversed  in  that  ample 

20  flight  of  reference,  allusion,  and  illustration,  and  what 
unsparing  copiousness  of  knowledge  gives  substance, 
meaning,  and  attraction  to  that  blaze  and  glare  of 
rhetoric. 

Macaulay  came  upon  the  world  of  letters,  just  as  the 

25  middle  classes  were  expanding  into  enormous  prosperity, 
were  vastly  increasing  in  numbers,  and  were  becoming 
more  alive  than  they  had  ever  been  before  to  literary 
interests.  His  Essays  are  as  good  as  a  library;  they 
make  an  incomparable  manual  and  vade  mecum  for  a 

30  busy  uneducated  man  who  has  curiosity  and  enlighten- 


MACAULAY  423 

ment  enough  to  wish  to  know  a  little  about  the  great  lives 
and  great  thoughts,  the  shining  words  and  many-colored 
complexities  of  action,  that  have  marked  the  journey 
of  man  through  the  ages.  Macaulay  had  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance both  with  the  imaginative  literature  and  the  5 
history  of  Greece  and  Rome,  with  the  literature  and  the 
history  of  modern  Italy,  of  France,  and  of  England. 
Whatever  his  special  subject,  he  contrives  to  pour  into 
it  with  singular  dexterity  a  stream  of  rich,  graphic,  and 
telling  illustrations  from  all  these  widely  diversified  10 
sources.  Figures  from  history,  ancient  and  modern, 
sacred  and  secular;  characters  from  plays  and  novels 
from  Plautus  down  to  Walter  Scott  and  Jane  Austen; 
images  and  similes  from  poets  of  every  age  and  every 
nation,  "pastoral,  pastoral-comical,  historical-pastoral,  15 
tragical-historical;"  shrewd  thrusts  from  satirists,  wise 
saws  from  sages,  pleasantries  caustic  or  pathetic  from 
humorists;  all  throng  Macaulay's  pages  with  the  bustle 
and  variety  and  animation  of  some  glittering  masque 
and  cosmoramic  revel  of  great  books  and  heroical  men.  20 
Hence,  though  Macaulay  was  in  mental  constitution 
one  of  the  very  least  Shakespearean  writers  that  ever 
lived,  yet  he  has  the  Shakespearean  quality  of  taking 
his  reader  though  an  immense  gallery  of  interesting  char- 
acters and  striking  situations.  No  writer  can  now  ex-  25 
pect  to  attain  the  widest  popularity  as  a  man  of  letters 
unless  he  gives  to  the  world  multa  as  well  as  multiim. 
Sainte-Beuve,  the  most  eminent  man  of  letters  in  France 
in  our  generation,  wrote  no  less  than  twenty-seven 
volumes  of  his  incomparable  Causeries.     Mr.  Carlyle,  30 


424  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

the  most  eminent  man  of  letters  in  England  in  our  gen- 
eration, has  taught  us  that  silence  is  golden  in  thirty 
volumes.  Macaulay  was  not  so  exuberantly  copious  as 
these  two  illustrious  writers,  but  he  had  the  art  of  being 
5  as  various  without  being  so  voluminous. 

There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  deliberate  and  syste- 
matic imitation  of  Macaulay's  style,  often  by  clever  men 
who  might  well  have  trusted  to  their  own  resources. 
Its  most  conspicuous  vices  are  very  easy  to  imitate,  but 

10  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  who  is  less  familiar  with 
literature  than  Macaulay  was,  to  reproduce  his  style 
effectively,  for  the  reason  that  it  is  before  all  else  the  style 
of  great  literary  knowledge.  Nor  is  that  all.  Macaulay's 
knowledge  was  not  only  very  wide;  it  was  both  thoroughly 

15  accurate  and  instantly  ready.  For  this  stream  of  apt 
illustrations  he  was  indebted  to  his  extraordinary  mem- 
ory, and  his  rapid  eye  for  contrasts  and  analogies.  They 
come  to  the  end  of  his  pen  as  he  writes;  they  are  not 
laboriously  hunted  out  in  indexes,  and  then  added  by 

20  way  of  afterthought  and  extraneous  interpolation. 
Hence  quotations  and  references  that  in  a  writer  even 
of  equal  knowledge,  but  with  his  wits  less  promptly 
about  him,  would  seem  mechanical  and  awkward,  find 
their  place  in  a  page  of  Macaulay  as  if  by  a  delightful 

25  process  of  complete  assimilation  and  spontaneous  fusion. 

■ 
We  may  be  sure  that  no  author  could  have  achieved 

Macaulay's  boundless  popularity  among  his  contem- 
poraries, unless  his  work  had  abounded  in  what  is  sub- 
stantially Commonplace.     Addison  puts  in  fine  writing, 


MACAULAY  425 

sentiments  that  are  natural  without  being  obvious,  and 
this  is  a  true  account  of  the  "law"  of  the  exquisite  lit- 
erature of  the  Queen  Anne  men.  We  may  perhaps  add 
to  Addison's  definition,  that  the  great  secret  of  the  best 
kind  of  popularity  is  always  the  noble  or  imaginative  5 
handling  of  Commonplace.  Shakespeare  may  at  first 
seem  an  example  to  the  contrary;  and  indeed  is  it  not  a 
standing  marvel  that  the  greatest  writer  of  a  nation  that 
is  distinguished  among  all  nations  for  the  pharisaism, 
puritanism,  and  unimaginative  narrowness  of  its  judg-  10 
ments  on  conduct  and  type  of  character,  should  be  para- 
mount over  all  writers  for  the  breadth,  maturity,  full- 
ness, subtlety,  and  infinite  variousness  of  his  conception 
of  human  life  and  nature?  One  possible  answer  to  the 
perplexity  is  that  the  puritanism  does  not  go  below  the  15 
surface  in  us,  and  that  Englishmen  are  not  really  limited 
in  their  view  by  the  too  strait  formulas  that  are  supposed 
to  contain  their  explanations  of  the  moral  universe. 
On  this  theory  the  popular  appreciation  of  Shakespeare 
is  the  irrepressible  response  of  the  hearty  inner  man  to  20 
a  voice  in  which  he  recognizes  the  full  note  of  human 
nature,  and  those  wonders  of  the  world  which  are  not 
dreamt  of  in  his  professed  philosophy.  A  more  obvious 
answer  than  this  is  that  Shakespeare's  popularity  with 
the  many  is  not  due  to  those  finer  glimpses  that  are  the  25 
very  essence  of  all  poetic  delight  to  the  few,  but  to  his 
thousand  other  magnificent  attractions,  and  above  all, 
after  his  skill  as  a  pure  dramatist  and  master  of  scenic 
interest  and  situation,  to  the  lofty  or  pathetic  setting 
with  which  he  vivifies,  not  the  subtleties  or  refinements,  30 


426  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

but  the  commonest  and  most  elementary  traits  of  the 
commonest  and  most  elementary  human  moods.  The 
few  with  minds  touched  by  nature  or  right  cultivation  to 
the  finer  issues,  admire  the  supreme  genius  which  takes 
S  some  poor  Italian  tale,  with  its  coarse  plot  and  gross 
personages,  and  shooting  it  through  with  threads  of 
variegated  meditation,  produces  a  masterpiece  of  pene- 
trative reflection  and  high  pensive  suggestion  as  to  the 
deepest  things  and  most  secret  parts  of  the  life  of  men. 

10  But  to  the  general  these  finer  threads  are  undiscernible. 
What  touches  them,  and  most  rightly  touches  them  and 
us  all,  in  the  Shakespearean  poetry,  are  topics  eternally 
old,  yet  of  eternal  freshness,  the  perennial  truisms  of 
the  grave  and   the   bridechamber,  of  shifting  fortune, 

15  the  surprises  of  destiny,  the  emptiness  of  the  answered 
vow.  This  is  the  region  in  which  the  poet  wins  his 
widest  if  not  his  hardest  triumphs,  the  region  of  the  noble 
Commonplace. 

A  writer  dealing  with  such  matters  as  principally  oc- 

20  cupied  Macaulay  has  not  the  privilege  of  resort  to  these 
great  poetic  inspirations.  Yet  history,  too,  has  its  gen- 
erous commonplaces,  its  plausibilities  of  emotion,  and 
no  one  has  ever  delighted  more  than  Macaulay  did  to 
appeal  to  the  fine  truisms  that  cluster  round  love  of 

25  freedom  and  love  of  native  land.  The  high  rhetorical 
topics  of  liberty  and  patriotism  are  his  readiest  instru- 
ments for  kindling  a  glowing  reflection  of  these  mag- 
nanimous passions  in  the  breasts  of  his  readers.  That 
Englishman  is  hardly  to  be  envied  who  can  read  without 

30  a  glow  such  passages  as  that  in  the  History  about  Tu- 


MACAULAY  .      427 

renne  being  startled  by  the  shout  of  stern  exultation  with 
which  his  English  allies  advanced  to  the  combat,  and 
expressing  the  delight  of  a  true  soldier  when  he  learned 
that  it  was  ever  the  fashion  of  Cromwell's  pikemen  to 
rejoice  greatly  when  they  beheld  the  enemy;  while  even    5 
the  banished  cavaliers  felt  an  emotion  of  national  pride 
when  they  saw  a  brigade  of  their  countrymen,  outnum- 
bered by  foes  and  abandoned  by  friends,  drive  before  it 
in  headlong  rout  the  finest  infantry  of  Spain,  and  force 
a  passage  into  a  counterscarp  which  had  just  been  pro-  10 
nounced  impregnable  by  the  ablest  of  the  marshals  of 
France.    Such  prose  as  this  is  not  less  thrilling  to  a  man 
who  loves  his  country,  than  the  spirited  verse  of  the 
Lays  0}  Ancient  Rome.       And   the  commonplaces   of 
patriotism  and  freedom  would  never  have  been  so  power-  15 
ful  in  Macaulay's  hands  if  they  had  not  been  inspired 
by  a  sincere  and  hearty  faith  in  them  in  the  soul  of  the 
writer.    His  unanalytical  turn  of  mind  kept  him  free  of 
any  temptation  to  think  of  love  of  country  as  a  prejudice, 
or  a  passion  for  freedom  as  an  illusion.     The  cosmo-  20 
politan   or  international   idea   which  such  teachers  as 
Cobden  have  tried  to  impress  on  our  stubborn  islanders, 
would  have  found  in  Macaulay  not  lukewarm  or  skep- 
tical adherence,  but  point-blank  opposition  and  denial. 
He  believed  as  stoutly  in  the  supremacy  of  Great  Britain  25 
in  the  history  of  the  good  causes  of  Europe,  as  M.  Thiers 
believes  in  the  supremacy  of  France,  or  Mazzini  be- 
lieved in  that  of  Italy.     The  thought  of  the  prodigious 
industr/,  the  inventiveness,  the  stout  enterprise,  the  free 
government,  the  wise  and  equal  laws,  the  noble  litera-  30 


428  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

ture,  of  this  fortunate  island  and  its  majestic  empire 
beyond  the  seas,  and  the  discretion,  valor,  and  tenacity 
by  which  all  these  great  material  and  still  greater  in- 
tangible possessions  had  been  first  won  and  then  kept 
5  against  every  hostile  comer  whether  domestic  or  foreign, 
sent  through  Macaulay  a  thrill,  like  that  which  the 
thought  of  Paris  and  its  heroisms  moves  in  the  great 
poet  of  France,  or  sight  of  the  dear  city  of  the  Violet 
Crown  moved  in  an  Athenian  of  old.    Thus  habitually, 

10  with  all  sincerity  of  heart,  to  offer  to  one  of  the  greater 
popular  prepossessions  the  incense  due  to  any  other  idol 
of  superstition,  sacred  and  of  indisputable  authority,  and 
to  let  this  adoration  be  seen  shining  in  every  page,  is 
one  of  the  keys  that  every  man  must  find  who  would 

1 5  make  a  quick  and  sure  way  into  the  temple  of  contempo- 
rary fame. 

It  is  one  of  the  first  things  to  be  said  about  Macaulay, 
that  he  was  in  exact  accord  with  the  common  average 
sentiment  of  his  day  on  every  subject  on  which  he  spoke. 

20  His  superiority  was  not  of  that  highest  kind  which  leads 
a  man  to  march  in  thought  on  the  outside  margin  of 
the  crowd,  watching  them,  sympathizing  with  them, 
hoping  for  them,  but  apart.  Macaulay  was  one  of  the 
middle-class  crowd  in  his  heart,  and  only  rose  above  it 

25  by  extraordinary  gifts  of  expression.  He  had  none  of 
that  ambition  which  inflames  some  hardy  men,  to  make 
new  beliefs  and  new  passions  enter  the  minds  of  their 
neighbors;  his  ascendancy  is  due  to  literary  pomp,  not 
to  fecundity  of  spirit.     No  one  has  ever  surpassed  him 

30  in  the  art  of  combining  resolute  and  ostentatious  com- 


MACAULAY  429 

mon  sense  of  a  slightly  coarse  sort  in  choosing  his  point 
of  view,  with  so  considerable  an  appearance  of  dignity 
and  elevation  in  setting  it  forth  and  impressing  it  upon 
others.     The  elaborateness  of  his  style  is  very  likely  to 
mislead  people  into  imagining  for  him  a  corresponding    5 
elaborateness  of  thought  and  sentiment.     On  the  con- 
trary, Macaulay's  mind  was  really  very  simple,  strait, 
and  with  as  few  notes  in  its  register,  to  borrow  a  phrase 
from  the  language  of  vocal  compass,  as  there  are  few 
notes,  though  they  are  very  loud,  in  the  register  of  his  10 
written  prose.    When  we  look  more  closely  into  it,  what 
at  first  wore  the  air  of  dignity  and  elevation,  in  truth 
rather  disagreeably  resembles  the  narrow  assurance  of  a 
man  who  knows  that  he  has  with  him  the  great  battal- 
ions of  public  opinion.    We  are  always  quite  sure  that  if  15 
Macaulay  had  been  an  Athenian  citizen  towards  the 
ninety-fifth  Olympiad,  he  would  have  taken  sides  with 
Anytus  and  Meletus  in  the  impeachment  of  Socrates. 
A  popular  author  must  take  the  accepted  maxims  for 
granted  in  a  thoroughgoing  way.     He  must  suppress  20 
any  whimsical  fancy  for  applying  the  Socratic  elenchus, 
or  any  other  engine  of  criticism,  skepticism,  or  verifica- 
tion, to  those  sentiments  or  current  precepts  of  morals, 
which  may  in  fact  be  very  two-sided  and  may  be  much 
neglected  in  practice,  but  which  the  public  opinion  of  25 
his  time  requires  to  be  treated  in  theory  and  in  literature 
as  if  they  had  been  cherished  and  held  sacred  semper, 
iibique,  et  ab  omnibus. — 

This  is  just  what  Macaulay  does,  and  it  is  commonly 
supposed  to  be  no  heavy  fault  in  him  or  any  other  writer  30 


43°  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

for  the  common  public.  Man  cannot  live  by  analysis 
alone,  nor  nourish  himself  on  the  secret  delights  of 
irony.  And  if  Macaulay  had  only  reflected  the  more 
generous  of  the  prejudices  of  mankind,  it  would  have 
5  been  well  enough.  Burke,  for  instance,  was  a  writer 
who  revered  the  prejudices  of  a  modern  society  as  deeply 
as  Macaulay  did;  he  believed  society  to  be  founded  on 
prejudices  and  held  compact  by  them.  Yet  what  size 
there  is  in  Burke,  what  fine  perspective,  what  momen- 

10  turn,  what  edification!  It  may  be  pleaded  that  there  is 
the  literature  of  edification,  and  there  is  the  literature 
of  knowledge,  and  that  the  qualities  proper  to  the  one 
cannot  lawfully  be  expected  from  the  other,  and  would 
only  be  very  much  out  of  place  if  they  should  happen 

15  to  be  found  there.  But  there  are  two  answers  to  this. 
First,  Macaulay  in  the  course  of  his  varied  writings  dis- 
cusses all  sorts  of  ethical  and  other  matters,  and  is  not 
simply  a  chronicler  of  party  and  intrigue,  of  dynasties 
and  campaigns.     Second,  and  more  than  this,  even  if 

20  he  had  never  traveled  beyond  the  composition  of  his- 
torical record,  he  could  still  have  sown  his  pages,  as  does 
every  truly  great  writer,  no  matter  what  his  subject 
may  be,  with  those  significant  images  or  far-reaching 
suggestions,  which  suddenly  light  up  a  whole  range  of 

25  distant  thoughts  and  sympathies  within  us;  which  in  an 
instant  affect  the  sensibilities  of  men  with  a  something 
new  and  unforeseen;  and  which  awaken,  if  only  for  a 
passing  moment,  the  faculty  and  response  of  the  diviner 
mind.     Tacitus  does  all  this,  and  Burke  does  it,  and 

30  that  is  why  men  who  care  nothing  for  Roman  despots  or 


MACAULAY  43 1 

for  Jacobin  despots,  will  still  perpetually  turn  to  those 
writers  almost  as  if  they  were  on  the  level  of  great  poets 
or  very  excellent  spiritual  teachers. 

One  secret  is  that  they,  and  all  such  men  as  they  were, 
had  that  of  which  Macaulay  can  hardly  have  had  the    5 
rudimentary  germ,  the  faculty  of  deep  abstract  medi- 
tation and  surrender  to  the  fruitful  "leisures  of  the 
spirit."     We  can  picture  Macaulay  talking,  or  making 
a  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons,  or  buried  in  a  book, 
or  scouring  his  library  for  references,  or  covering  his  10 
blue  foolscap  with  dashing  periods,  or  accentuating  his 
sentences  and  barbing  his  phrases;  but  can  anybody 
think  of  him  as  meditating,  as  modestly  pondering  and 
wondering,  as  possessed  for  so  much  as  ten  minutes  by 
that  spirit  of  inwardness  which  has  never  been  wholly  15 
wanting  in  any  of  those  kings  and  princes  of  literature, 
with  whom  it  is  good  for  men  to  sit  in  counsel  ?    He  seeks 
Truth,  not  as  she  should  be  sought,  devoutly,  tenta- 
tively, and  with  the  air  of  one  touching  the  hem  of  a 
sacred  garment,  but  clutching  her  by  the  hair  of  the  head  20 
and  dragging  her  after  him  in  a  kind  of  boisterous 
triumph,  a  prisoner  of  war  and  not  a  goddess. 

All  this  finds  itself  reflected,  as  the  inner  temper  of  a 
man  always  is  reflected,  in  his  style  of  written  prose. 
The  merits  of  his  prose  are  obvious  enough.  It  naturally  25 
reproduces  the  good  qualities  of  his  understanding,  its 
strength,  manliness,  and  directness.  That  exultation  in 
material  goods  and  glories  of  which  we  have  already 
spoken  makes  his  pages  rich  in  color,  and  gives  them 
the  effect  of  a  sumptuous  gala  suit.    Certainly  the  bro-  30 


432  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

cade  is  too  brand-new,  and  has  none  of  the  delicate 
charm  that  comes  to  such  finery  when  it  is  a  little  faded. 
Again,  nobody  can  have  any  excuse  for  not  knowing 
exactly  what  it  is  that  Macaulay  means.    We  may  as- 

S  suredly  say  of  his  prose  what  Boileau  says  of  his  own 
poetry — Et  mon  vers,  Men  ou  mal,  dit  toujours  quelque 
chose.  This  is  a  prodigious  merit,  when  we  reflect  with 
what  fatal  alacrity  human  language  lends  itself  in  the 
hands  of  so  many  performers  upon  the  pliant  instrument, 

10  to  all  sorts  of  obscurity,  ambiguity,  disguise  and  pre- 
tentious mystification.  Scaliger  is  supposed  to  have 
remarked  of  the  Basques  and  their  desperate  tongue: 
"Tis  said  the  Basques  understand  one  another;  for 
my  part,  I  will  never  believe  it."    The  same  pungent 

15  doubt  might  apply  to  loftier  members  of  the  hierarchy 
of  speech  than  that  forlorn  dialect,  but  never  to  English 
as  handled  by  Macaulay.  He  never  wrote  an  obscure 
sentence  in  his  life,  and  this  may  seem  a  small  merit, 
until  we  remember  of  how  few  writers  we  could  say  the 

20  same. 

Macaulay  is  of  those  who  think  prose  as  susceptible 
of  polished  and  definite  form  as  verse,  and  he  was,  we 
should  suppose,  of  those  also  who  hold  the  type  and 
mold  of   all    written  language  to  be  spoken  language. 

25  There  are  more  reasons  for  demurring  to  the  soundness 
of  the  latter  doctrine  than  can  conveniently  be  made  to 
fill  a  digression  here.  For  one  thing,  spoken  language 
necessarily  implies  one  or  more  listeners,  whereas  writ- 
ten  language   may   often   have   to   express   meditative 

30  moods  and  trains  of  inward  reflection  that  move  through 


MACAULAY  433 

the  mind  without  trace  of  external  reference,  and  that 
would  lose  their  special  traits  by  the  introduction  of  any 
suspicion  that  they  were  to  be  overheard.  Again,  even 
granting  that  all  composition  must  be  supposed  to  be 
meant  by  the  fact  of  its  existence  to  be  addressed  to  a  5 
body  of  readers,  it  still  remains  to  be  shown  that  indi- 
rect address  to  the  inner  ear  should  follow  the  same 
method  and  rhythm  as  address  directly  through  impres- 
sions on  the  outer  organ.  The  attitude  of  the  recipient 
mind  is  different,  and  there  is  the  symbolism  of  a  new  10 
medium  between  it  and  the  speaker.  The  writer,  being 
cut  off  from  all  those  effects  which  are  producible  by  the 
physical  intonations  of  the  voice,  has  to  find  substitutes 
for  them  by  other  means,  by  subtler  cadences,  by  a  more 
varied  modulation,  by  firmer  notes,  by  more  complex  15 
circuits,  than  suffice  for  the  utmost  perfection  of  spoken 
language,  which  has  all  the  potent  and  manifold  aids 
of  personality.  In  writing,  whether  it  be  prose  or  verse, 
you  are  free  to  produce  effects  whose  peculiarity  one  can 
only  define  vaguely  by  saying  that  the  senses  have  one  20 
part  less  in  them  than  in  any  other  of  the  forms  and 
effects  of  art,  and  the  imaginary  voice  one  part  more. 
But  the  question  need  not  be  labored  here,  because 
there  can  be  no  dispute  as  to  the  quality  of  Macaulay's 
prose.  Its  measures  are  emphatically  the  measures  of  25 
spoken  deliverance.  Those  who  have  made  the  experi- 
ment, pronounce  him  to  be  one  of  the  authors  whose 
works  are  most  admirably  fitted  for  reading  aloud.  His 
firmness  and  directness  of  statement,  his  spiritedness, 
his  art  of  selecting  salient  and  highly  colored  detail,  and  3° 
Prose — 28 


434  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

all  his  other  merits  as  a  narrator  keep  the  listener's 
attention,  and  make  him  the  easiest  of  writers  to  follow. 
Although,  however,  clearness,  directness,  and  posi- 
tiveness  are  master  qualities  and  the  indispensable  foun- 
5  dations  of  all  good  style,  yet  does  the  matter  plainly  by 
no  means  end  with  them.  And  it  is  even  possible  to 
have  these  virtues  so  unhappily  proportioned  and  in- 
auspiciously  mixed  with  other  turns  and  casts  of  mind, 
as  to  end  in  work  with  little  grace  or  harmony  or  fine 

10  tracery  about  it,  but  only  overweening  purpose  and  ve- 
hement will.  And  it  is  overweeningness  and  self-confi- 
dent will  that  are  the  chief  notes  of  Macaulay's  style. 
It  has  no  benignity.  Energy  is  doubtless  a  delightful 
quality,  but  then  Macaulay's  energy  is  energy  without 

15  momentum,  and  he  impresses  us  more  by  a  strong 
volubility  than  by  volume.  It  is  the  energy  of  interests 
and  intuitions,  which  though  they  are  profoundly  sin- 
cere if  ever  they  were  sincere  in  any  man,  are  yet  in  the 
relations    which    they    comprehend,    essentially    super- 

20  ficial. 

Still,  trenchancy  whether  in  speaker  or  writer  is  a 
most  effective  tone  for  a  large  public.  It  gives  them  con- 
fidence in  their  man,  and  prevents  tediousness — except 
to  those  who  reflect  how  delicate  is  the  poise  of  truth, 

25  what  steeps  and  pits  encompass  the  dealer  in  unqualified 
propositions.  To  such  persons,  a  writer  who  is  tren- 
chant in  every  sentence  of  every  page,  who  never  lapses 
for  a  line  into  the  contingent,  who  marches  through  the 
intricacies  of  things  in  a  blaze  of  certainty,  is  not  only  a 

30  writer  to  be  distrusted,  but  the  owner  of  a  doubtful  and 


MACAULAY  435 

displeasing  style.  It  is  a  great  test  of  style  to  watch  how 
an  author  disposes  of  the  qualifications,  limitations,  and 
exceptions  that  clog  the  wings  of  his  main  proposition. 
The  grave  and  conscientious  men  of  the  seventeenth 
century  insisted  on  packing  them  all  honestly  along  5 
with  the  main  proposition  itself  within  the  bounds  of 
a  single  period.  Burke  arranges  them  in  tolerably  close 
order  in  the  paragraph.  Dr.  Newman,  that  winning 
writer,  disperses  them  lightly  over  his  page.  Of  Ma- 
caulay  it  is  hardly  unfair  to  say  that  he  dispatches  all  10 
qualifications  into  outer  space  before  he  begins  to  write, 
or  if  he  magnanimously  admits  one  or  two  here  and 
there,  it  is  only  to  bring  them  the  more  imposingly  to 
the  same  murderous  end. 

We  have  spoken  of  Macaulay's  interests  and  intuitions  15 
wearing  a  certain  air  of  superficiality;  there  is  a  feeling 
of  the  same  kind  about  his  attempts  to  be  genial.  It  is 
not  truly  festive.  There  is  no  abandonment  in  it.  It 
has  no  deep  root  in  moral  humor,  and  is  merely  a  literary 
form,  resembling  nothing  so  much  as  the  hard  geniality  20 
of  some  clever  college  tutor  of  stiff  manners  entertain- 
ing undergraduates  at  an  official  breakfast  party.  This 
is  not  because  his  tone  is  bookish;  on  the  contrary,  his 
tone  and  level  are  distinctly  those  of  the  man  of  the  world. 
But  one  always  seems  to  find  that  neither  a  wide  range  25 
of  cultivation  nor  familiar  access  to  the  best  Whig  circles 
had  quite  removed  the  stiffness  and  self-conscious  pre- 
cision of  the  Clapham  Sect.  We  would  give  much  for 
a  little  more  flexibility,  and  would  welcome  even  a 
slight  consciousness  of  infirmity.    As  has  been  said,  the  30 


43^  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

only  people  whom  men  cannot  pardon  are  the  perfect. 
Macaulay  is  like  the  military  king  who  never  suffered 
himself  to  be  seen,  even  by  the  attendants  in  his  bed- 
chamber, until  he  had  had  time  to  put  on  his  uniform  and 
5  jack  boots.  His  severity  of  eye  is  very  wholesome;  it 
makes  his  writing  firm,  and  firmness  is  certainly  one  of 
the  first  qualities  that  good  writing  must  have.  But 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  soft  and  considerate  precision, 
as  well  as  hard  and  scolding  precision.     Those  most 

10  interesting  English  critics  of  the  generation  slightly  an- 
terior to  Macaulay, — Hazlitt,  Lamb,  De  Quincey,  Leigh 
Hunt, — were  fully  his  equals  in  precision,  and  yet  they 
knew  how  to  be  clear,  acute,  and  definite,  without  that 
edginess  and   inelasticity  which  is  so  conspicuous  in 

15  Macaulay's  criticisms,  alike  in  their  matter  and  their 
form. 

To  borrow  the  figure  of  an  old  writer,  Macaulay's 
prose  is  not  like  a  flowing  vestment  to  his  thought,  but 
like  a  suit  of  armour.    It  is  often  splendid  and  glitter- 

20  ing,  and  the  movement  of  the  opening  pages  of  his  History 
is  superb  in  its  dignity.    But  that  movement  is  excep 
tional.    As  a  rule  there  is  the  hardness,  if  there  is  also 
often  the  sheen,  of  highly- wrought  metal.    Or,  to  change 
our  figure,  his  pages  are  composed  as  a  handsome  edi- 

25  fice  is  reared,  not  as  a  fine  statue  or  a  frieze  "  with  bossy 
sculptures  graven"  grows  up  in  the  imaginative  mind  of 
the  statuary.  There  is  no  liquid  continuity,  such  as 
indicates  a  writer  possessed  by  his  subject  and  not  merely 
possessing  it.     The  periods  are  marshaled  in  due  order 

30  of   procession,    bright   and    high-stepping;    they   never 


MACAULAY  437 

escape  under  an  impulse  of  emotion  into  the  full  current 
of  a  brimming  stream.    What  is  curious  is  that  though 
Macaulay  seems  ever  to  be  brandishing  a  two-edged 
gleaming  sword,  and  though  he  steeps  us  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  belligerency,  yet  we  are  never  conscious  of  in-    5 
ward  agitation  in  him,  and  perhaps  this  alone  would 
debar  him  from  a  place  among  the  greatest  writers. 
For  they,  under  that  reserve,  suppression,  or  manage- 
ment, which  is  an  indispensable  condition  of  the  finest 
rhetorical  art,  even  when  aiming  at  the  most  passionate  10 
effects,   still  succeed  in  conveying  to  their  readers  a 
thrilling  sense  of  the  strong  fires  that  are  glowing  under- 
neath.   Now  when  Macaulay  advances  with  his  hector- 
ing sentences  and  his  rough  pistoling  ways,  we  feel  all 
the  time  that  his  pulse  is  as  steady  as  that  of  the  most  15 
practiced  duellist  who  ever  ate  fire.     He  is  too  cool  to 
be  betrayed  into  a  single  phrase  of  happy  improvisation. 
His  pictures  glare,  but  are  seldom  warm.    Those  strokes 
of  minute  circumstantiality  which  he  loved  so  dearly, 
show  that  even  in  moments  when  his  imagination  might  20 
seem  to  be  moving  both  spontaneously  and  ardently, 
it  was  really  only  a  literary  instrument,  a  fashioning 
tool  and  not  a  melting  flame.    Let  us  take  a  single  ex- 
ample.   He  is  describing  the  trial  of  Warren  Hastings. 
"Every  step  in  the  proceedings,"  he  says,  "carried  the  25 
mind    either    backward    through  many  troubled  cen- 
turies to  the  days  when  the  foundations  of  our  constitu- 
tion were  laid;  or  far  away  over  boundless  seas  and 
deserts,  to  dusky  nations  living  under   strange  stars, 
worshiping    strange    gods,   and    writing    strange  char-  30 


438  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

acters  from  right  to  left."  The  odd  triviality  of  the  last 
detail,  its  unworthiness  of  the  sentiment  of  the  passage, 
leaves  the  reader  checked;  what  sets  out  as  a  fine  stroke 
of  imagination  dwindles  down  to  a  sort  of  literary  con- 
5  ceit.  And  so  in  other  places,  even  where  the  writer  is 
most  deservedly  admired  for  gorgeous  picturesque  effect, 
we  feel  that  it  is  only  the  literary  picturesque,  a  kind  of 
infinitely  glorified  newspaper  reporting.  Compare,  for 
instance,  the  most  imaginative  piece  to  be  found  in  any 

10  part  of  Macaulay's  writings  with  that  sudden  and  lovely 
apostrophe  in  Carlyle,  after  describing  the  bloody  hor- 
rors that  followed  the  fall  of  the  Bastille  in  1789: — "O 
evening  sun  of  July,  how,  at  this  hour,  thy  beams  fall 
slant  on  reapers  amid  peaceful  woody  fields;  on  old 

15  women  spinning  in  cottages;  on  ships  far  out  in  the 
silent  main;  on  balls  at  the  Orangerie  of  Versailles,  where 
high-rouged  dames  of  the  Palace  are  even  now  dancing 
with  double- jacketed  Hussar-officers; — and  also  on  this 
roaring  Hell-porch  of  a  Hotel  de  Ville!"    Who  does  not 

20  feel  in  this  the  breath  of  poetic  inspiration,  and  how 
different  it  is  from  the  mere  composite  of  the  rhetorician's 
imagination,  assiduously  working  to  order? 

This    remark    is    no    disparagement    of    Macaulay's 
genius,  but  a  classification  of  it.     We  are  interrogating 

25  our  own  impressions,  and  asking  ourselves  among  what 
kind  of  writers  he  ought  to  be  placed.  Rhetoric  is  a 
good  and  worthy  art,  and  rhetorical  authors  are  often 
more  useful,  more  instructive,  more  really  respectable 
than  poetical  authors.    But  it  is  to  be  said  that  Macaulay 

30  as  a  rhetorician  will  hardly  be  placed  in  the  first  rank 


MACAULAY  439 

by  those  who  have  studied  both  him  and  the  great 
masters.  Once  more,  no  amount  of  embellishment  or 
emphasis  or  brilliant  figure  suffices  to  produce  this  in- 
tense effect  of  agitation  rigorously  restrained;  nor  can 
any  beauty  of  decoration  be  in  the  least  a  substitute  for  5 
that  touching  and  penetrative  music  which  is  made  in 
prose  by  the  repressed  trouble  of  grave  and  high  souls. 
There  is  a  certain  music,  we  do  not  deny,  in  Macaulay, 
but  it  is  the  music  of  a  man  everlastingly  playing  for  us 
rapid  solos  on  a  silver  trumpet,  never  the  swelling  dia-  10 
pasons  of  the  organ,  and  never  the  deep  ecstasies  of  the 
four  magic  strings.  That  so  sensible  a  man  as  Ma- 
caulay should  keep  clear  of  the  modern  abomination  of 
dithyrambic  prose,  that  rank  and  sprawling  weed  of 
speech,  was  natural  enough;  but  then  the  effects  which  15 
we  miss  in  him,  and  which,  considering  how  strong  the 
literary  faculty  in  him  really  was,  we  are  almost  aston- 
ished to  miss,  are  not  produced  by  dithyramb  but  by 
repression.  Of  course  the  answer  has  been  already 
given;  Macaulay,  powerful  and  vigorous  as  he  was,  had  20 
no  agitation,  no  wonder,  no  tumult  of  spirit,  to  repress. 
The  world  was  spread  out  clear  before  him;  he  read  it 
as  plainly  and  as  certainly  as  he  read  his  books;  life  was 
all  an  affair  of  direct  categoricals. 

This  was  at  least  one  secret  of  those  hard  modulations  25 
and  shallow  cadences.  How  poor  is  the  rhythm  of 
Macaulay's  prose,  we  only  realize  by  going  with  his 
periods  fresh  in  our  ear  to  some  true  master  of  harmony. 
It  is  not  worth  while  to  quote  passages  from  an  author 
who  is  in  everybody's  library,  and  Macaulay  is  always  30 


44°  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

so  much  like  himself  that  almost  any  one  page  will  serve 
for  an  illustration  exactly  as  well  as  any  other.  Let 
any  one  turn  to  his  character  of  Somers,  for  whom  he 
had  much  admiration,  and  then  turn  to  Clarendon's 
5  character  of  Falkland;— "a  person  of  such  prodigious 
parts  of  learning  and  knowledge,  of  that  inimitable 
sweetness  and  delight  in  conversation,  of  so  flowing  and 
obliging  a  humanity  and  goodness  to  mankind,  and  of 
that  primitive  simplicity  and  integrity  of  life,  that  if 

10  there  were  no  other  brand  upon  this  odious  and  accursed 
civil  war  than  that  single  loss,  it  must  be  most  infamous 
and  execrable  to  all  posterity."  Now  Clarendon  is  not 
a  great  writer,  nor  even  a  good  writer,  for  he  is  prolix 
and  involved,  yet  we  see  that  even  Clarendon,  when  he 

iS  comes  to  a  matter  in  which  his  heart  is  engaged,  be- 
comes sweet  and  harmonious  in  his  rhythm.  If  we  turn 
to  a  prose  writer  of  the  very  first  place,  we  are  instantly 
conscious  of  a  still  greater  difference.  How  flashy  and 
shallow  Macaulay's  periods  seem  as  we  listen  to  the  fine 

20  ground  base  that  rolls  in  the  melody  of  the  following 
passage  of  Burke's,  and  it  is  taken  from  one  of  the  least 
ornate  of  all  his  pieces: — 

"You  will  not,  we  trust,  believe,  that,  born  in  a  civilized  country, 
formed  to  gentle  manners,  trained  in  a  merciful  religion,  and  living 

25  in  enlightened  and  polished  times,  where  even  foreign  hostility  is 
softened  from  its  original  sternness,  we  could  have  thought  of 
letting  loose  upon  you,  our  late  beloved  brethren,  these  fierce 
tribes  of  savages  and  cannibals,  in  whom  the  traces  of  human  na- 
ture are  effaced  by  ignorance  and  barbarity.     We  rather  wished 

30  to  have  joined  with  you  in  bringing  gradually  that  unhappy  part 
of  mankind  into  civility,  order,  piety,  and  virtuous  discipline,  than 


MACAULAY  44I 

to  have  confirmed  their  evil  habits  and  increased  their  natural 
ferocity  by  fleshing  them  in  the  slaughter  of  you,  whom  our  wiser 
and  better  ancestors  had  sent  into  the  wilderness  with  the  express 
view  of  introducing,  along  with  our  holy  religion,  its  humane  and 
charitable  manners.  We  do  not  hold  that  all  things  are  lawful  5 
in  war.  We  should  think  every  barbarity,  in  fire,  in  wasting,  in 
murders,  in  tortures,  and  other  cruelties,  too  horrible  and  too  full 
of  turpitude  for  Christian  mouths  to  utter  or  ears  to  hear,  if  done 
at  our  instigation,  by  those  who  we  know  will  make  war  thus  if 
they  make  it  at  all,  to  be,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  as  if  done  10 
by  ourselves.  We  clear  ourselves  to  you  our  brethren,  to  the 
present  age,  and  to  future  generations,  to  our  king  and  our  coun- 
try, and  to  Europe,  which,  as  a  spectator,  beholds  this  tragic  scene, 
of  every  part  or  share  in  adding  this  last  and  worst  of  evils  to  the 
inevitable  mischiefs  of  a  civil  war.  '5 

"  We  do  not  call  you  rebels  and  traitors.  We  do  not  call  for 
the  vengeance  of  the  crown  against  you.  We  do  not  know  how 
to  qualify  millions  of  our  countrymen,  contending  with  one  heart 
for  an  admission  to  privileges  which  we  have  ever  thought  our 
own  happiness  and  honor,  by  odious  and  unworthy  names.  On  20 
the  contrary,  we  highly  revere  the  principles  on  which  you  act, 
though  we  lament  some  of  their  effects.  Armed  as  you  are,  we 
embrace  you,  as  our  friends  and  as  our  brethren  by  the  best  and 
dearest  ties  of  relation." 

It  may  be  said  that  there  is  a  patent  injustice  in  com-  25 
paring  the  prose  of  a  historian  criticising  or  describing 
great  events  at  second  hand,  with  the  prose  of  a  states- 
man taking  active  part  in  great  events,  fired  by  the  pas- 
sion of  a  present  conflict,  and  stimulated  by  the  vivid  in- 
terest of  undetermined  issues.  If  this  be  a  well  grounded  3° 
plea,  and  it  may  be  so,  then  of  course  it  excludes  a  con- 
trast not  only  with  Burke,  but  also  with  Bolingbroke, 
whose  fine  manners  and  polished  gayety  give  us  a  keen 


442  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

sense  of  the  grievous  garishness  of  Macaulay.  If  we 
may  not  initiate  a  comparison  between  Macaulay  and 
great  actors  on  the  stage  of  affairs,  at  least  there  can  be 
no  objection  to  the  introduction  of  Southey  as  a  standard 

5  of  comparison.  Southey  was  a  man  of  letters  pure  and 
simple,  and  it  is  worth  remarking  that  Macaulay  him- 
self admitted  that  he  found  so  great  a  charm  in  Southey 's 
style,  as  nearly  always  to  read  it  with  pleasure,  even 
when  Southey  was  talking  nonsense.     Now,  take  any 

10  page  of  the  Life  of  Nelson  or  the  Life  of  Wesley;  con- 
sider how  easy,  smooth,  natural,  and  winning  is  the 
diction  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  sentence,  and  yet 
how  varied  the  rhythm  and  how  nervous  the  phrases; 
and  then  turn  to  a  page  of  Macaulay,  and  wince  under 

15  its  stamping  emphasis,  its  overcolored  tropes,  its  ex- 
aggerated expressions,  its  unlovely  staccato.  Southey's 
History  of  the  Peninsular  War  is  now  dead,  but  if  any 
of  my  readers  has  a  copy  on  his  highest  shelves,  I  would 
venture  to  ask  him  to  take  down  the  third  volume,  and 

20  read  the  concluding  pages,  of  which  Coleridge  used  to 
say  that  they  were  the  finest  specimen  of  historic  eulogy 
he  had  ever  read  in  English,  adding  with  forgivable 
hyperbole,  that  they  were  more  to  the  Duke's  fame  and 
glory  than  a  campaign.    "  Foresight  and  enterprise  with 

25  our  commander  went  hand  in  hand;  he  never  advanced 
but  so  as  to  be  sure  of  his  retreat;  and  never  retreated 
but  in  such  an  attitude  as  to  impose  upon  a  superior 
enemy,"  and  so  on  through  the  sum  of  Wellington's 
achievements.     "There  was  something  more  precious 

30  than  these,  more  to  be  desired  than  the  high  and  endur- 


MAC AULA Y  443 

ing  fame  which  he  had  secured  by  his  military  achieve- 
ments, the  satisfaction  of  thinking  to  what  end  those 
achievements  had  been  directed;  that  they  were  for  the 
deliverance  of  two  most  injured  and  grievously  oppressed 
nations;  for  the  safety,  honor,  and  welfare  of  his  own  5 
country;  and  for  the  general  interests  of  Europe  and  of 
the  civilized  world.  His  campaigns  were  sanctified  by 
the  cause;  they  were  sullied  by  no  cruelties,  no  crimes; 
the  chariot  wheels  of  his  triumphs  have  been  followed 
by  no  curses;  his  laurels  are  entwined  with  the  amaranths  10 
of  righteousness,  and  upon  his  deathbed  he  might  re- 
member his  victories  among  his  good  works." 

With  this  exquisite  modulation  still  delighting  the  ear, 
we  open  Macaulay's  Essays  and  stumble  on  such  sen- 
tences as  this:  "That  Tickell  should  have  been  guilty  15 
of  a  villany  seems  to  us  highly  improbable.    That  Ad- 
dison should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villany  seems  to  us 
highly  improbable.     But  that  these  two  men  should 
have  conspired  together  to  commit  a  villany  seems  to 
us  improbable  in  a  tenfold  degree."     ' to  fj.ia.pbi>,  ko.1  nan-  20 
niapbv,  Kal  /xiapwraTovl     Surely  this  is  the  very  burlesque 
and  travesty  of  a  style.    Yet  it  is  a  characteristic   pas- 
sage.   It  would  be  easy  to  find  a  thousand  examples  of 
the  same  vicious  workmanship,  and  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find   a   page  in  which  these  cut  and  disjointed  sen-  25 
tences  are  not  the  type  and  mode  of  the   prevailing 
rhythm. 

What  is  worse  than  want  of  depth  and  fineness  of  in- 
tonation in  a  period  is  all  gross  excess  of  color,  because 
excess  of  color  is  connected  with  graver  faults  in  the  30 


444  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

region  of  the  intellectual  conscience.  Macaulay  is  a 
constant  sinner  in  this  respect.  The  wine  of  truth  is  in 
his  cup  a  brandied  draft,  a  hundred  degrees  above 
proof,  and  he  too  often  replenishes  the  lamp  of  knowl- 
5  edge  with  naphtha  instead  of  fine  oil.  It  is  not  that  he  has 
a  spontaneous  passion  for  exuberant  decoration,  which 
he  would  have  shared  with  more  than  one  of  the  greatest 
names  in  literature.  On  the  contrary,  we  feel  that  the 
exaggerated  words  and  dashing  sentences  are  the  fruit 

10  of  deliberate  travail,  and  the  petulance  or  the  irony  of 
his  speech  is  mostly  due  to  a  driving  predilection  for 
strong  effects.  His  memory,  his  directness,  his  aptitude 
for  forcing  things  into  firm  outline,  and  giving  them  a 
sharply  defined  edge, — these  and  other  singular  talents 

IS  of  his  all  lent  themselves  to  this  intrepid  and  indefati- 
gable pursuit  of  effect.  And  the  most  disagreeable 
feature  is  that  Macaulay  was  so  often  content  with  an 
effect  of  an  essentially  vulgar  kind,  offensive  to  taste, 
discordant  to  the  fastidious  ear,  and  worst  of  all,  at 

20  enmity  with  the  whole  spirit  of  truth.  By  vulgar  we 
certainly  do  not  mean  homely,  which  marks  a  wholly 
different  quality.  No  writer  can  be  more  homely  than 
Mr.  Carlyle,  alike  in  his  choice  of  particulars  to  dwell 
upon,  and  in  the  terms  or  images  in  which  he  describes 

25  or  illustrates  them,  but  there  is  also  no  writer  further 
removed  from  vulgarity.  Nor  do  we  mean  that  Ma- 
caulay too  copiously  enriches  the  tongue  with  infusion 
from  any  Doric  dialect.  For  such  raciness  he  had  little 
taste.    What  we  find  in  him  is  that  quality  which  the 

30  French  call  brutal.     The  description,  for  instance,  in 


MACAULAY  445 

the  essay  on  Hallam,  of  the  license  of  the  Restoration, 
seems  to  us  a  coarse  and  vulgar  picture,  whose  painter 
took  the  most  garish  colors  he  could  find  on  his  palette 
and  laid  them  on  in  untempered  crudity.  And  who  is 
not  sensible  of  the  vulgarity  and  coarseness  of  the  ac-  5 
count  of  Boswell?  "If  he  had  not  been  a  great  fool, 
he  would  not  have  been  a  great  writer  ...  he  was 
a  dunce,  a  parasite,  and  a  coxcomb,"  and  so  forth,  in 
which  the  shallowness  of  the  analysis  of  Boswell's  char- 
acter matches  the  puerile  rudeness  of  the  terms.  Here,  10 
again,  is  a  sentence  about  Montesquieu.  "The  English 
at  that  time,"  Macaulay  says  of  the  middle  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  "considered  a  Frenchman  who  talked 
about  constitutional  checks  and  fundamental  laws  as  a 
prodigy  not  less  astonishing  than  the  learned  pig  or  15 
musical  infant."  And  he  then  goes  on  to  describe  the 
author  of  one  of  the  most  important  books  that  ever 
were  written  as  "  specious  but  shallow,  studious  of  effect, 
indifferent  to  truth — the  lively  President,"  and  so  forth, 
stirring  in  any  reader  who  happens  to  know  Montes-  20 
quieu's  influence,  a  singular  amazement.  We  are  not 
concerned  with  the  judgment  upon  Montesquieu,  nor 
with  the  truth  as  to  contemporary  English  opinion  about 
him,  but  a  writer  who  devises  an  antithesis  to  such  a 
man  as  Montesquieu  in  learned  pigs  and  musical  in-  25 
fants,  deliberately  condescends  not  merely  to  triviality 
or  levity  but  to  flat  vulgarity  of  thought,  to  something 
of  mean  and  ignoble  association.  Though  one  of  the 
most  common,  this  is  not  Macaulay's  only  sin  in  the 
same  unfortunate  direction.     He  too  frequently  resorts  30 


446  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

to  vulgar  gaudiness.  For  example,  there  is  in  one  place 
a  certain  description  of  an  alleged  practice  of  Addison's. 
Swift  had  said  of  Esther  Johnson  that  "whether  from 
her  easiness  in  general,  or  from  her  indifference  to  per- 
5  sons,  or  from  her  despair  of  mending  them,  or  from  the 
same  practice  which  she  most  liked  in  Mr.  Addison,  I 
cannot  determine;  but  when  she  saw  any  of  the  company 
very  warm  in  a  wrong  opinion,  she  was  more  inclined 
to  confirm  them  in  it  than  to  oppose  them.     It  pre- 

10  vented  noise,  she  said,  and  saved  time."  Let  us  be- 
hold what  a  picture  Macaulay  draws  on  the  strength 
of  this  passage.  "  If  his  first  attempts  to  set  a  presum- 
ing dunce  right  were  ill-received,"  Macaulay  says  of 
Addison,  "he  changed  his  tone,  'assented  with  civil 

15  leer,'  and  lured  the  flattered  coxcomb  deeper  and  deeper 
into  absurdity."  To  compare  this  transformation  of 
the  simplicity  of  the  original  into  the  grotesque  heat  and 
overcharged  violence  of  the  copy,  is  to  see  the  homely 
maiden  of  a  country  village  transformed  into  the  painted 

20  flaunter  of  the  city. 

One  more  instance.  We  should  be  sorry  to  violate 
any  sentiment  of  rb  <renv6v  about  a  man  of  Macaulay's 
genius,  but  what  is  a  decorous  term  for  a  description 
of  the  doctrine  of  Lucretius's  great  poem,  thrown  in 

25  parenthetically,  as  the  "silliest  and  meanest  system  of 
natural  and  moral  philosophy"?  Even  disagreeable 
artifices  of  composition  may  be  forgiven  when  they 
serve  to  vivify  truth,  to  quicken  or  to  widen  the  moral 
judgment,  but  Macaulay's  hardy  and  habitual  recourse 

30  to  strenuous  superlatives  is  fundamentally  unscientific 


MACAULAY  447 

and  untrue.  There  is  no  more  instructive  example  in 
our  literature  than  he,  of  the  saying  that  the  adjective  is 
the  enemy  of  the  substantive. 

In   1837  Jeffrey  saw  a  letter  written  by  Macaulay  to 
a  common  friend,  and  stating  the  reasons  for  preferring  a    5 
literary  to  a  political  life.     Jeffrey  thought  that  his  il- 
lustrious ally  was  wrong  in  the  conclusion  to  which  he 
came.     "As  to  the  tranquillity  of  an  author's  life,"  he 
said,  "  I  have  no  sort  of  faith  in  it.    And  as  to  fame,  if 
an  author's  is  now  and  then  more  lasting,  it  is  generally  10 
longer  withheld,  and  except  in  a  few  rare  cases  it  is  of 
a  less  pervading  or  elevating  description.    A  great  poet 
or  a  great  original  writer  is  above  all  other  glory.    But 
who  would  give  much  for  such  a  glory  as  Gibbon's? 
Besides,  I  believe  it  is  in  the  inward  glow  and  pride  of  15 
consciously  influencing  the  destinies  of  mankind,  much 
more  than  in  the  sense  of  personal  reputation,  that  the 
delight  of  either  poet  or  statesman  chiefly  consists." 
And  Gibbon  had  at  least  the  advantage  of  throwing 
himself  into  a  controversy  destined  to  endure  for  cen-  20 
turies.    He,  moreover,  was  specifically  a  historian,  while 
Macaulay  has  been  prized  less  as  a  historian  proper, 
than  as  a  master  of  literary  art.    Now  a  man  of  letters, 
in  an  age  of  battle  and  transition  like  our  own,  fades  into 
an   ever-deepening   distance,   unless   he   has   while   he  25 
writes  that  touching  and  impressive  quality, — the  pre- 
ientiment  of  the  eve;  a  feeling  of  the  difficulties  and  in- 
terests that  will  engage  and  distract  mankind  on  the 
morrow.    Nor  tan  it  be  enough  for  enduring  fame  in 


448  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

any  age  merely  to  throw  a  golden  halo  round  the  secu 
larity  of  the  hour,  or  to  make  glorious  the  narrowest  limi- 
tations of  the  passing  day.  If  we  think  what  a  changed 
sense  is  already  given  to  criticism,  what  a  different  con- 
5  ception  now  presides  over  history,  how  many  problems 
on  which  he  was  silent  are  now  the  familiar  puzzles  of 
even  superficial  readers,  we  cannot  help  feeling  that  the 
eminent  man  whose  life  we  are  all  about  to  read,  is  the 
hero  of  a  past  which  is  already  remote,  and  that  he  did 
10  little  to  make  men  better  fitted  to  face  a  present  of  which, 
close  as  it  was  to  him,  he  seems  hardly  to  have  dreamed 


ARNOLD 

[Matthew  Arnold,  son  of  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  the  famous 
headmaster  of  Rugby,  was  born  at  Laleham  in  1822.  Arnold's 
school  days  were  nearly  all  passed  at  Rugby,  where  he  wrote  his 
prize  poem,  Alaric  at  Rome  (1840)  He  also  won  the  Newdi- 
gate  prize  at  Oxford  with  a  poem  called  Cromwell.  In  March, 
1845  ne  was  elected  a  fellow  of  Oriel,  and  in  1847  he  was  ap- 
pointed secretary  to  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  who,  four  years 
later,  secured  for  Arnold  an  inspectorship  of  schools.  This  posi- 
tion he  held  until  1886.  From  1857  to  1867,  Arnold  was  Pro- 
fessor of  Poetry  at  Oxford.  His  lectures  On  Translating  Homer 
and  On  the  Study  of  Celtic  Literature  were  published  in  1861-1862 
and  1867.  He  visited  America  twice,  once  in  1883-1884  and  again 
in  1886.  Arnold  died  in  1888.  A  complete  edition  of  his  poetry 
appeared  in  1885.  His  prose  writings  include:  Essays  in  Crit- 
icism, first  series  (1865);  Culture  and  Anarchy  (1869);  Saint 
Paul  and  Prostestantism  (1870)  ;  Literature  and  Dogma  (1873); 
Mixed  Essays  (1879);  Discourses  in  America  (1885);  Essays  in 
Criticism,  second  series  (1888).] 

When  Matthew  Arnold  first  delivered  his  lecture  on 
Emerson  he  wrote  home:  "I  have  given  him  praise 
which  in  England  will  be  thought  excessive,  probably; 
but  then  I  have  a  very,  very  deep  feeling  for  him." 
Sympathy  with  Emerson,  Arnold  could  not  have  found 
difficult  to  possess.  The  soul  of  Emerson's  message 
is  conduct,  which  for  Arnold  is  three-fourths  of  life. 
This  of  itself  implies  the  large  spiritual  fellowship  there 
was  between  the  American  seer  and  his  English  critic. 
We  cannot,  therefore,  question  the  deliberateness  and 
sincerity  of  the  high  opinion  which  finds  expression  in 
the  second  half  of  the  present  essay. 
Prose — 29  449 


450  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

Arnold  reaches  his  final  positive  judgment  through 
a  series  of  negations.  Emerson,  he  says,  is  great 
neither  as  a  poet,  a  man  of  letters,  a  philosopher,  nor 
as  a  spectator  of  life.  He  is  great  "as  a  friend  and 
aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit."  His  great- 
ness, moreover,  is  pervaded  by  a  "serene,  beautiful 
temper,"  which  holds  fast  to  "happiness  and  hope;" 
a  temper,  too,  which,  by  giving  to  Emerson's  gospel  an 
"invaluable  virtue,"  makes  it  "the  most  important 
work  done  in  prose  during  the  present  century." 

These  judgments  are  the  result  of  an  application  to 
Emerson's  writings  of  certain  well-known  ideals  and 
methods  of  criticism  which  Arnold  habitually  employed 
and  to  which  brief  reference  must  here  be  made.  His 
expressed  aim  is  to  arrive  at  a  "real  estimate,"  by  which 
he  means  the  estimate  of  time  and  nature;  and  to  ac- 
complish his  aim  he  makes  use  of  a  definite  method  of 
criticism.  Emerson's  various  literary  performances  are 
successively  measured  by  certain  "highest  standards," 
or  acknowledged  classical  writers.  Tested  in  this 
way,  Emerson's  real  greatness  becomes  evident  only 
when  we  place  him  beside  Marcus  Aurelius.  And  not 
only  in  the  larger  divisions  of  the  subject  is  the  method 
conspicuous;  it  shows  itself  also  in  the  frequent  contrasts 
of  Carlyle  and  Emerson,  and  in  the  comparison  of  Emer- 
son with  Hawthorne,  and  again  with  Franklin. 

Preference  for  the  concrete  over  the  abstract,  for  the 
relative  over  the  absolute,  is  a  phase  of  Arnold's  method, 
and  accounts  for  the  large  number  of  quotations  in  his 
essays.  He  defines  by  illustrations,  not  by  definitions. 
"The  true  prose,"  he  says,  "is  Attic  prose;"  and  At- 
tic prose  becomes  the  norm  of  style. 

Another  phase  of  his  criticism  is  the  practice  of  con- 
densing an  estimate  of  a  writer  into  a  single  sentence 
or  phrase,  and  of  making  this  crystallized  judgment  do 
service  whenever  the  writer's  work  is  called  in  question. 


ARNOLD  451 

Emerson,  in  the  essay  before  us,  on  the  positive  side  is 
always  "  the  friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in 
the  spirit," — a  formula  repeated  as  often  as  Emerson's 
true  value  is  reckoned  with. 

In  his  appraisal  of  Emerson's  style,  Arnold  adopts 
the  same  method.  A  great  prose  style,  he  says,  shows 
itself  in  "  the  whole  tissue  of  work  .  .  .  regarded  as  a  com- 
position for  literary  purposes."  Emerson's  style,  meas- 
ured by  this  standard,  falls  short;  it  has  no  evolution, 
no  "whole  tissue." 

Finally,  Arnold's  estimate  of  Emerson's  work  as  a 
contribution  to  the  world  is  derived  from  his  ideal  of 
literature  as  a  test  of  that  work.  "  The  end  and  aim  of 
all  literature,"  says  Arnold,  "  is  a  criticism  of  life." 
Emerson's  is  the  most  important  work  done  in  prose 
during  the  nineteenth  century  because  it  most  perfectly 
accomplishes  the  purpose  of  literature, — criticism  of  life. 

Arnold's  style  in  this  essay  is  typical  of  his  manner  in 
criticism,  though  the  lecture  form  is  frankly  obtrusive. 
The  memorable  introduction  on  the  "  voices  "  at  Oxford 
— a  passage  hardly  surpassed  anywhere  else  in  Arnold — 
together  with  the  concluding  comparison  between  Em- 
erson and  Franklin,  is  not  subordinated  to  the  "tissue 
of  the  whole."  Obvious  faults  arising  from  the  lecture 
form,  however,  do  not  materially  lessen  the  charm  com- 
municated by  a  prose  that  possesses  the  "  classic  "  qual- 
ities of  "lucidity,  measure,  propriety."  Arnold's  style 
has  also  urbanity,  which  is  manifested  in  a  gracious, 
refined,  untrammeled,  and  always  serenely  confident 
manner  of  expression  and  thought.  Serene  confidence, 
in  truth,  occasionally  becomes  priggishness  and  pose; 
and  wherever  this  attitude  shows  itself  the  style  of  course 
loses  its  most  winning  characteristic.  This  quality, 
which  one  feels  in  the  best  conversation  and  which  we 
have  called  urbanity,  is  sometimes  responsible  in  the 
case  of  Arnold  for  the  further  defects  of  repetition,  diffuse- 


45 2  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

ness  and  verbal  narrowness.  But  after  these  deductions 
have  been  made,  there  remains  a  style  distinctive  for 
restraint  and  lucidity,  a  style  fashioned  after  the  pattern 
of  Greek  prose  which,  better  than  any  other  prose  in 
the  world,  combines  richness  of  content  with  beauty  of 
form. 


EMERSON 

Forty  years  ago,  when  I  was  an  undergraduate  at 
Oxford,  voices  were  in  the  air  there  which  haunt  my 
memory  still.  Happy  the  man  who  in  that  susceptible 
season  of  youth  hears  such  voices!  they  are  a  possession 
5  to  him  for  ever.  No  such  voices  as  those  which  we  heard 
in  our  youth  at  Oxford  are  sounding  there  now.  Ox- 
ford has  more  criticism  now,  more  knowledge,  more 
light;  but  such  voices  as  those  of  our  youth  it  has  no 
longer.    The  name  of  Cardinal  Newman  is  a  great  name 

io  to  the  imagination  still;  his  genius  and  his  style  are  still 
things  of  power.  But  he  is  over  eighty  years  old;  he  is 
in  the  Oratory  at  Birmingham;  he  has  adopted,  for  the 
doubts  and  difficulties  which  beset  men's  minds  to-day, 
a  solution  which,  to  speak  frankly,  is  impossible.    Forty 

15  years  ago  he  was  in  the  very  prime  of  life;  he  was  close 
at  hand  to  us  at  Oxford;  he  was  preaching  in  St.  Mary's 
pulpit  every  Sunday;  he  seemed  about  to  transform  and 
to  renew  what  was  for  us  the  most  national  and  natural 
institution  in  the  world,  the  Church  of  England.    Who 

20  could  resist  the  charm  of  that  spiritual  apparition,  glid- 
ing in  the  dim  afternoon  light  through  the  aisles  of 
St.  Mary's,  rising  into  the  pulpit,  and  then,  in  the  most 


EMERSON  453 

entrancing  of  voices,  breaking  the  silence  with  words 
and  thoughts  which  were  a  religious  music,— subtle, 
sweet,  mournful?  I  seem  to  hear  him  still,  saying: 
"After  the  fever  of  life,  after  wearinesses  and  sicknesses, 
fightings  and  despondings,  languor  and  fretfulness,  5 
struggling  and  succeeding;  after  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  this  troubled,  unhealthy  state, — at  length 
comes  death,  at  length  the  white  throne  of  God,  at 
length  the  beatific  vision."  Or,  if  we  followed  him  back 
to  his  seclusion  at  Littlemore,  that  dreary  village  by  the  10 
London  road,  and  to  the  house  of  retreat  and  the  church 
which  he  built  there, — a  mean  house  such  as  Paul  might 
have  lived  in  when  he  was  tent  making  at  Ephesus,  a 
church  plain  and  thinly  sown  with  worshipers, — who 
could  resist  him  there  either,  welcoming  back  to  the  se-  15 
vere  joys  of  church  fellowship,  and  of  daily  worship 
and  prayer,  the  firstlings  of  a  generation  which  had  well- 
nigh  forgotten  them?  Again  I  seem  to  hear  him:  "The 
season  is  chill  and  dark,  and  the  breath  of  the  morning 
is  damp,  and  worshipers  are  few;  but  all  this  befits  those  20 
who  are  by  their  profession  penitents  and  mourners, 
watchers  and  pilgrims.  More  dear  to  them  that  loneli- 
ness, more  cheerful  that  severity,  and  more  bright  that 
gloom,  than  all  those  aids  and  appliances  of  luxury  by 
which  men  nowadays  attempt  to  make  prayer  less  dis-  25 
agreeable  to  them.  True  faith  does  not  covet  comforts; 
they  who  realize  that  awful  day,  when  they  shall  see  Him 
face  to  face  whose  eyes  are  as  a  flame  of  fire,  will  as 
little  bargain  to  pray  pleasantly  now  as  they  will  think 
of  doing  so  then."  3° 


454  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

Somewhere  or  other  I  have  spoken  of  those  "last  en- 
chantments of  the   Middle   Age   which   Oxford   sheds 
around  us,  and  here  they  were!    But  there  were  other 
voices  sounding  in  our  ear  besides  Newman's.     There 
S  was  the  puissant  voice  of  Carlyle;  so  sorely  strained, 
over-used,  and  misused  since,  but  then  fresh,  compara- 
tively sound,  and  reaching  our  hearts  with  true,  pathetic 
eloquence.    Who  can  forget  the  emotion  of  receiving  in 
its  first  freshness  such  a  sentence  as  that  sentence  of  Car- 
lo lyle  upon  Edward  Irving,  then  just  dead:  "Scotland  sent 
him  forth  a  herculean  man;  our  mad  Babylon  wore  and 
wasted  him  with  all  her  engines, — and  it  took  her  twelve 
years!"    A  greater  voice  still, — the  greatest  voice  of  the 
century, — came  to  us  in  those  youthful  years  through 
J5  Carlyle:  the  voice  of  Goethe.    To  this  day, — such  is  the 
force   of   youthful   associations, — I   read   the   Wilhelm 
Meister  with  more  pleasure  in  Carlyle's  translation  than 
in  the  original.    The  large,  liberal  view  of  human  life  in 
Wilhelm  Meister,  how  novel  it  was  to  the  Englishman  in 
20  those  days!  and  it  was  salutary,  too,  and  educative  for 
him,  doubtless,  as  well  as  novel.     But  what  moved  us 
most  in  Wilhelm  Meister  was  that  which,  after  all,  will 
always  move  the  young  most, — the  poetry,  the  eloquence. 
Never,  surely,  was  Carlyle's  prose  so  beautiful  and  pure 
25  as  in  his  rendering  of  the  Youths'  dirge  over  Mignon! — 
"  Well  is  our  treasure  now  laid  up,  the  fair  image  of  the 
past.    Here  sleeps  it  in  the  marble,  undecaying;  in  your 
hearts,  also,  it  lives,  it  works.    Travel,  travel,  back  into 
life!      Take  along  with  you  this  holy  earnestness,  for 
30  earnestness  alone  makes  life  eternity."     Here  we  had  the 


EMERSON  455 

voice  of  the  great  Goeche; — not  the  stiff,  and  hindered, 
and  frigid,  and  factitious  Goethe  who  speaks  to  us  too 
often  from  those  sixty  volumes  of  his,  but  of  the  great 
Goethe,  and  the  true  one. 

And  besides  those  voices,  there  came  to  us  in  that  old  5 
Oxford  time  a  voice  also  from  this  side  of  the  Atlantic, — 
a  clear  and  pure  voice,  which  for  my  ear,  at  any  rate, 
brought  a  strain  as  new,  and  moving,  and  unforgettable, 
as  the  strain  of  Newman,  or  Carlyle,  or  Goethe.  Mr. 
Lowell  has  well  described  the  apparition  of  Emerson  to  10 
your  young  generation  here,  in  that  distant  time  of  which 
I  am  speaking,  and  of  his  workings  upon  them.  He  was 
your  Newman,  your  man  of  soul  and  genius  visible  to  you 
in  the  flesh,  speaking  to  your  bodily  ears,  a  present  ob- 
ject for  your  heart  and  imagination.  That  is  surely  the  15 
most  potent  of  all  influences!  nothing  can  come  up  to  it. 
Te  us  at  Oxford  Emerson  was  but  a  voice  speaking  from 
three  thousand  miles  away.  But  so  well  he  spoke,  that 
from  that  time  forth  Boston  Bay  and  Concord  were 
names  invested  to  my  ear  with  a  sentiment  akin  to  that  20 
which  invests  for  me  the  names  of  Oxford  and  of  Weimar; 
and  snatches  of  Emerson's  strain  fixed  themselves  in 
my  mind  as  imperishably  as  any  of  the  eloquent  words 
which  I  have  been  just  now  quoting.  "Then  dies  the 
man  in  you;  then  once  more  perish  the  buds  of  art,  25 
poetry,  and  science,  as  they  have  died  already  in  a 
thousand  thousand  men."  "What  Plato  has  thought, 
he  may  think;  what  a  saint  has  felt,  he  may  feel;  what  at 
any  time  has  befallen  any  man,  he  can  understand." 
"Trust  thyself!  every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string.  30 


45^  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

Accept  the  place  the  Divine  Providence  has  found  for 
you,  the  society  of  your  contemporaries,  the  connection 
of  events.  Great  men  have  always  done  so,  and  con- 
fided themselves  childlike  to  the  genius  of  their  age; 
S  betraying  their  perception  that  the  Eternal  was  stirring 
at  their  heart,  working  through  their  hands,  predomi- 
nating in  all  their  being.  And  we  are  now  men,  and 
must  accept  in  the  highest  spirit  the  same  transcendent 
destiny;  and  not  pinched  in  a  corner,  not  cowards  fleeing 

10  before  a  revolution,  but  redeemers  and  benefactors,  pious 
aspirants  to  be  noble  clay  plastic  under  the  Almighty 
effort,  let  us  advance  and  advance  on  chaos  and  the 
dark!"  These  lofty  sentences  of  Emerson,  and  a  hun- 
dred others  of  like  strain,  I  never  have  lost  out  of  my 

15  memory;  I  never  can  lose  them. 

At  last  I  find  myself  in  Emerson's  own  country,  and 
looking  upon  Boston  Bay.  Naturally  I  revert  to  the 
friend  of  my  youth.  It  is  not  always  pleasant  to  ask 
oneself  questions   about   the   friends   of    one's  youth; 

20  they  cannot  always  well  support  it.  Carlyle,  for  instance, 
in  my  judgment,  cannot  well  support  such  a  return 
upon  him.  Yet  we  should  make  the  return;  we  should 
part  with  our  illusions,  we  should  know  the  truth.  When 
I  come  to  this  country,  where  Emerson  now  counts  for 

25  so  much,  and  where  such  high  claims  are  made  for  him, 
I  pull  myself  together,  and  ask  myself  what  the  truth 
about  this  object  of  my  youthful  admiration  really  is. 
Improper  elements  often  come  into  our  estimate  of  men. 
We  have  lately  seen  a  German  critic  make  Goethe  the 

30  greatest  of  all  poets,  because  Germany  is  now  the  greatest 


EMERSON  457 

of  military  powers,  and  wants  a  poet  to  match.  Then, 
too,  America  is  a  young  country;  and  young  countries, 
like  young  persons,  are  apt  sometimes  to  evince  in  their 
literary  judgments  a  want  of  scale  and  measure.  I  set 
myself,  therefore,  resolutely  to  come  at  a  real  estimate  5 
of  Emerson,  and  with  a  leaning  even  to  strictness  rather 
than  to  indulgence.  That  is  the  safer  course.  Time  has 
no  indulgence;  any  veils  of  illusion  which  we  may  have 
left  around  an  object  because  we  loved  it,  Time  is  sure 
to  strip  away.  10 

I  was  reading  the  other  day  a  notice  of  Emerson  by  a 
serious  and  interesting  American  critic.  Fifty  or  sixty 
passages  in  Emerson's  poems,  says  this  critic, — who  had 
doubtless  himself  been  nourished  on  Emerson's  writ- 
ings, and  held  them  justly  dear, — fifty  or  sixty  passages  15 
from  Emerson's  poems  have  already  entered  into  Eng- 
lish speech  as  matter  of  familiar  and  universally  current 
quotation.  Here  is  a  specimen  of  that  personal  sort  of 
estimate  which,  for  my  part,  even  in  speaking  of  authors 
dear  to  me,  I  would  try  to  avoid.  What  is  the  kind  of  20 
phrase  of  which  we  may  fairly  say  that  it  has  entered 
into  English  speech  as  matter  of  familiar  quotation? 
Such  a  phrase,  surely,  as  the  "  Patience  on  a  monument" 
of  Shakespeare;  as  the  "Darkness  visible"  of  Milton; 
as  the  "Where  ignorance  is  bliss"  of  Gray.  Of  not  one  25 
single  passage  in  Emerson's  poetry  can  it  be  truly  said 
that  it  has  become  a  familiar  quotation  like  phrases  of 
this  kind.  It  is  not  enough  that  it  should  be  familiar 
to  his  admirers,  familiar  in  New  England,  familiar  even 


45^  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

throughout  the  United  States;  it  must  be  familiar  to  all 
readers  and  lovers  of  English  poetry.  Of  not  more  than 
one  or  two  passages  in  Emerson's  poetry  can  it,  I  think, 
be  truly  said,  that  they  stand  ever-present  in  the  memory 
5  of  even  many  lovers  of  English  poetry.  A  great  number 
of  passages  from  his  poetry  are  no  doubt  perfectly  fa- 
miliar to  the  mind  and  lips  of  the  critic  whom  I  have 
mentioned,  and  perhaps  a  wide  circle  of  American 
readers.     But  this  is  a  very  different  thing  from  being 

10  matter  of  universal  quotation,  like  the  phrases  of  the 
legitimate  poets. 

And,  in  truth,  one  of  the  legitimate  poets,  Emerson, 
in  my  opinion,  is  not.  His  poetry  is  interesting,  it  makes 
one  think;  but  it  is  not  the  poetry  of  one  of  the  born 

15  poets.  I  say  it  of  him  with  reluctance,  although  I  am 
sure  that  he  would  have  said  it  of  himself;  but  I  say  it 
with  reluctance,  because  I  dislike  giving  pain  to  his  ad- 
mirers, and  because  all  my  own  wish,  too,  is  to  say  of 
him  what  is   favorable.      But  I  regard  myself,  not  as 

20  speaking  to  please  Emerson's  admirers,  not  as  speaking 
to  please  myself;  but  rather,  I  repeat,  as  communing  with 
Time  and  Nature  concerning  the  productions  of  this 
beautiful  and  rare  spirit,  and  as  resigning  what  of  him  is 
by  their  unalterable  decree  touched   with  caducity,  in 

25  order  the  better  to  mark  and  secure  that  in  him  which 
is  immortal. 

Milton  says  that  poetry  ought  to  be  simple,  sensuous, 
impassioned.  Well,  Emerson's  poetry  is  seldom  either 
simple,  or  sensuous,  or  impassioned.    In  general  it  lacks 

30  directness;  it  lacks  concreteness;  it  lacks  energy.     His 


EMERSON  459 

grammar  is  often  embarrassed;  in  particular,  the  want 
of  clearly-niarked  distinction  between  the  subject  and 
the  object  of  his  sentence  is  a  frequent  cause  of  obscurity 
in  him.  A  poem  which  shall  be  a  plain,  forcible,  in- 
evitable whole  he  hardly  ever  produces.  Such  good  5 
work  as  the  noble  lines  graven  on  the  Concord  Monu- 
ment is  the  exception  with  him;  such  ineffective  work  as 
the  Fourth  0}  July  Ode  or  the  Boston  Hymn  is  the  rule. 
Even  passages  and  single  lines  of  thorough  plainness 
and  commanding  force  are  rare  in  his  poetry.  They  10 
exist,  of  course;  but  when  we  meet  with  them  they  give 
us  a  slight  shock  of  surprise,  so  little  has  Emerson  ac- 
customed us  to  them.  Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of 
quoting  one  or  two  of  these  exceptional  passages: 

"  So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust,  15 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 
The  youth  replies,  lean." 

Or  again  this: 

"  Though  love  repine  and  reason  chafe,  20 

There  came  a  voice  without  reply : 
•'Tis  man's  perdition  to  be  safe, 
When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die."' 

Excellent!  but  how  seldom  do  we  get  from  him  a 
strain  blown  so  clearly  and  firmly!   Take  another  passage  25 
where  his  strain  has  not  only  clearness,  it  has  also  grace 
and  beauty: 


460  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  PROSE 

"  And  ever,  when  the  happy  child 
In  May  beholds  the  blooming  wild, 
And  hears  in  heaven  the  bluebird  sing, 
'Onward,'  he  cries,  'your  baskets  bring  1 
?  In  the  next  field  is  air  more  mild, 

And  in  yon  hazy  west  is  Eden's  balmier  spring.' " 

In  the  style  and  cadence  here  there  is  a  reminiscence, 
I  think,  of  Gray;  at  any  rate  the  pureness,  grace,  and 
beauty  of  these  lines  are  worthy  even  of  Gray.     But 

10  Gray  holds  his  high  rank  as  a  poet,  not  merely  by  the 
beauty  and  grace  of  passages  in  his  poems;  not  merely 
by  a  diction  generally  pure  in  an  age  of  impure  diction: 
he  holds  it,  above  all,  by  the  power  and  skill  with  which 
the  evolution  of  his  poems  is  conducted.     Here  is  his 

15  grand  superiority  to  Collins,  whose  diction  in  his  best 
poem,  the  Ode  to  Evening,  is  purer  than  Gray's;  but 
then  the  Ode  to  Evening  is  like  a  river  which  loses  itself 
in  the  sand,  whereas  Gray's  best  poems  have  an  evolu- 
tion sure  and  satisfying.      Emerson's  May-Day,  from 

20  which  I  just  now  quoted,  has  no  real  evolution  at  all; 
it  is  a  series  of  observations.  And,  in  general,  his  poems 
have  no  evolution.  Take,  for  example,  his  Titmouse. 
Here  he  has  an  excellent  subject;  and  his  observation 
of   Nature,  moreover,  is  always  marvelously  close  and 

25  fine.  But  compare  what  he  makes  of  his  meeting  with 
his  titmouse  with  what  Cowper  or  Burns  makes  of  the 
like  kind  of  incident!  One  never  quite  arrives  at  learn- 
ing what  the  titmouse  actually  did  for  him  at  all,  though 
one  feels  a  strong  interest  and  desire  to  learn  it;  but  one 

30  is  reduced  to  guessing,  and  cannot  be  quite  sure  that 


EMERSON  461 

after  all  one  has  guessed  right.  He  is  not  plain  and  con- 
crete enough, — in  other  words,  not  poet  enough, — to  be 
able  to  tell  us.  And  a  failure  of  this  kind  goes  through 
almost  all  his  verse,  keeps  him  amid  symbolism  and 
allusion  and  the  fringes  of  things,  and,  in  spite  of  his  spir-  5 
itual  power,  deeply  impairs  his  poetic  value.  Through 
the  inestimable  virtue  of  concreteness,  a  simple  poem 
like  The  Bridge  of  Longfellow,  or  the  School  Days  of 
Mr.  Whittier,  is  of  more  poetic  worth,  perhaps,  than 
all  the  verse  of  Emerson.  10 

I  do  not,  then,  place  Emerson  among  the  great  poets. 
But  I  go  further,  and  say  that  I  do  not  place  him  among 
the  great  writers,  the  great  men  of  letters.  Who  are  the 
great  men  of  letters?  They  are  men  like  Cicero,  Plato, 
Bacon,  Pascal,  Swift,  Voltaire, — writers  with,  in  the  first  15 
place,  a  genius  and  instinct  for  style;  writers  whose 
prose  is  by  a  kind  of  native  necessity  true  and  sound. 
Now  the  style  of  Emerson,  like  the  style  of  his  tran- 
scendentalist  friends  and  of  the  Dial  so  continually, — the 
style  of  Emerson  is  capable  of  falling  into  a  strain  like  20 
this,  which  I  take  from  the  beginning  of  his  Essay  on 
Love:  "Every  soul  is  a  celestial  being  to  every  other 
soul.  The  heart  has  its  sabbaths  and  jubilees,  in  which 
the  world  appears  as  a  hymeneal  feast,  and  all  natural 
sounds  and  the  circle  of  the  seasons  are  erotic  odes  and  25 
dances."  Emerson  altered  this  sentence  in  the  later 
editions.  Like  Wordsworth,  he  was  in  later  life  fond 
of  altering;  and  in  general  his  later  alterations,  like  those 
of  Wordsworth,  are  not  improvements.  He  softened 
the  passage  in  question,  however,  though  without  really  30 


462  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

mending  it.  I  quote  it  in  its  original  and  strongly- 
marked  form.  Arthur  Stanley  used  to  relate  that  about 
the  year  1840,  being  in  conversation  with  some  Amer- 
icans in  quarantine  at  Malta,  and  thinking  to  please 
5  them,  he  declared  his  warm  admiration  for  Emerson's 
Essays,  then  recently  published.  However,  the  Ameri- 
cans shook  their  heads,  and  told  him  that  for  home 
taste  Emerson  was  decidedly  too  greeny.  We  will  hope, 
for  their  sakes,  that  the  sort  of  thing  they  had  in  their 

10  heads  was  such  writing  as  I  have  just  quoted.  Un- 
sound it  is,  indeed,  and  in  a  style  almost  impossible  to  a 
born  man  of  letters. 

It  is  a  curious  thing,  that  quality  of  style  which  marks 
the  great  writer,  the  born  man  of  letters.    It  resides  in 

15  the  whole  tissue  of  one's  work,  and  of  his  work  regarded 
as  a  composition  for  literary  purposes.  Brilliant  and 
powerful  passages  in  a  man's  writings  do  not  prove  his 
possession  of  it;  it  lies  in  their  whole  tissue.  Emerson 
has  passages  of  noble  and  pathetic  eloquence,  such  as 

20  those  which  I  quoted  at  the  beginning;  he  has  passages 
of  shrewd  and  felicitous  wit;  he  has  crisp  epigram;  he 
has  passages  of  exquisitely  touched  observation  of  na- 
ture. Yet  he  is  not  a  great  writer;  his  style  has  not  the 
requisite  wholeness  of  good  tissue.    Even  Carlyle  is  not, 

25  in  my  judgment,  a  great  writer.  He  has  surpassingly 
powerful  qualities  of  expression,  far  more  powerful  than 
Emerson's,  and  reminding  one  of  the  gifts  of  expression 
of  the  great  poets, — of  even  Shakespeare  himself.  What 
Emerson  so  admirably  says  of  Carlyle's  "devouring  eyes 

30  and  portraying  hand,"  "those  thirsty  eyes,  those  por- 


EMERSON  463 

trait-eating,  portrait-painting  eyes  of  thine,  those  fatal 
perceptions,"  is  thoroughly  true.  What  a  description 
is  Carlyle's  of  the  first  publisher  of  Sartor  Resartus,  "  to 
whom  the  idea  of  a  new  edition  of  Sartor  is  frightful,  or 
rather  ludicrous,  unimaginable;"  of  this  poor  Fraser,  in  5 
whose  "wonderful  world  of  Tory  pamphleteers,  conser- 
vative Younger-brothers,  Regent  Street  loungers,  Crock- 
ford  gamblers,  Irish  Jesuits,  drunken  reporters,  and 
miscellaneous  unclean  persons  (whom  niter  and  much 
soap  will  not  wash  clean),  not  a  soul  has  expressed  the  10 
smallest  wish  that  way!"  What  a  portrait,  again,  of 
the  well-beloved  John  Sterling!  "One,  and  the  best,  of 
a  small  class  extant  here,  who,  nigh  drowning  in  a  black 
wreck  of  Infidelity  (lighted  up  by  some  glare  of  Radi- 
calism only,  now  growing  dim  too),  and  about  to  perish,  15 
saved  themselves  into  a  Coleridgian  Shovel-Hattedness." 
What  touches  in  the  invitation  of  Emerson  to  London! 
"You  shall  see  blockheads  by  the  million;  Pickwick  him- 
self shall  be  visible, — innocent  young  Dickens,  reserved 
for  a  questionable  fate.  The  great  Wordsworth  shall  talk  20 
till  you  yourself  pronounce  him  to  be  a  bore.  Southey's 
complexion  is  still  healthy  mahogany  brown,  with  a 
fleece  of  white  hair,  and  eyes  that  seem  running  at  full 
gallop.  Leigh  Hunt,  man  of  genius  in  the  shape  of  a 
cockney,  is  my  near  neighbor,  with  good  humor  and  no  25 
common  sense;  old  Rogers  with  his  pale  head,  white, 
bare,  and  cold  as  snow,  with  those  large  blue  eyes,  cruel, 
sorrowful,  and  that  sardonic  shelf  chin."  How  inimi- 
table it  all  is!  And  finally,  for  one  must  not  go  on  for 
ever,  this  version  of  a  London  Sunday   with  the  public  30 


464  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

houses  closed  during  the  hours  of  divine  service!  "It 
is  silent  Sunday;  the  populace  not  yet  admitted  to  their 
beer-shops,  till  the  respectabilities  conclude  their  rubric 
mummeries, — a  much  more  audacious  feat  than  beer." 
5  Yet  even  Carlyle  is  not,  in  my  judgment,  to  be  called 
a  great  writer;  one  cannot  think  of  ranking  him  with 
men  like  Cicero  and  Plato  and  Swift  and  Voltaire. 
Emerson  freely  promises  to  Carlyle  immortality  for  his 
histories.    They  will  not  have  it.    Why?      Because  the 

io  materials  furnished  to  him  by  that  devouring  eye  of  his, 
and  that  portraying  hand,  were  not  wrought  in  and  sub- 
dued by  him  to  what  his  work,  regarded  as  a  compo- 
sition for  literary  purposes,  required.  Occurring  in  con- 
versation, breaking  out  in  familiar  correspondence,  they 

15  are  magnificent,  inimitable;  nothing  more  is  required 
of  them;  thus  thrown  out  anyhow,  they  serve  their  turn 
and  fulfill  their  function.  And,  therefore,  I  should  not 
wonder  if  really  Carlyle  lived,  in  the  long  run,  by  such 
an  invaluable  record  as  that  correspondence  between  him 

20  and  Emerson,  of  which  we  owe  the  publication  to  Mr. 
Charles  Norton, — by  this  and  not  by  his  works,  as  John- 
son lives  in  Boswell,  not  by  his  works.  For  Carlyle's 
sallies,  as  the  staple  of  a  literary  work,  become  wearisome; 
and  as  time  more  and  more  applies  to  Carlyle's  works 

25  its  stringent  test,  this  will  be  felt  more  and  more.  Shake- 
speare, Moliere,  Swift, — they,  too,  had,  like  Carlyle, 
the  devouring  eye  and  the  portraying  hand.  But  they 
are  great  literary  masters,  they  are  supreme  writers,  be- 
cause they  knew  how  to  work  into  a  literary  composition 

30  their  materials,  and  to  subdue  them  to  the  purposes  of 


EMERSON  465 

literary  effect.    Carlyle  is  too  willful  for  this,  too  turbid, 
too  vehement. 

You  will  think  I  deal  in  nothing  but  negatives.     1 
have  been  saying  that  Emerson  is  not  one  of  the  great 
poets,  the  great  writers.     He  has  not  their  quality  of    5 
style.    He  is,  however,  the  propounder  of  a  philosophy. 
The  Platonic  dialogues  afford  us  the  example  of  ex- 
quisite literary  form  and  treatment  given  to  philosoph- 
ical ideas.    Plato  is  at  once  a  great  literary  man  and  a 
great  philosopher.     If  we  speak  carefully,  we  cannot  10 
call  Aristotle  or  Spinoza  or  Kant  great  literary  men,  or 
their  productions  great  literary  works.    But  their  work 
is  arranged  with  such  constructive  power  that  they  build 
a  philosophy,  and  are  justly  called  great  philosophical 
writers.    Emerson  cannot,  I  think,  be  called  with  justice  15 
a   great   philosophical   writer.     He  cannot   build;   his 
arrangement  of  philosophical  ideas  has  no  progress  in 
it,  no  evolution;  he  does  not  construct  a  philosophy. 
Emerson  himself  knew  the  defects  of  his  method,  or 
rather  want  of  method,  very  well;  indeed,  he  and  Car-  20 
lyle  criticise  themselves  and  one  another  in  a  way  which 
leaves  little  for  any  one  else  to  do  in  the  way  of  formu- 
lating their  defects.     Carlyle  formulates  perfectly  the 
defects  of  his  friend's  poetic  and  literary  production  when 
he  says  of  the  Dial:  "For  me  it  is  too  ethereal,  specu-  25 
lative,  theoretic;  I  will  have  all  things  condense  them- 
selves, take  shape  and  body,  if  they  are  to  have  my 
sympathy."    And,  speaking  of  Emerson's  Orations,  he 
says:  "I  long  to  see  some  concrete  Thing,  some  Event, 
Man's  Life,   American   Forest,   or   piece  of  Creation,  30 
Prose — 30 


466  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

which  this  Emerson  loves  and  wonders  at,  well  Emer- 
sonized, — depictured  by  Emerson,  filled  with  the  life  of 
Emerson,  and  cast  forth  from  him,  then  to  live  by  itself. 
If  these  Orations  balk  me  of  this,  how  profitable  soever 
5  they  may  be  for  others,  I  will  not  love  them."  Emerson 
himself  formulates  perfectly  the  defect  of  his  own  philo- 
sophical productions  when  he  speaks  of  his  "  formidable 
tendency  to  the  lapidary  style.  I  build  my  house  of 
bowlders."  "Here  I  sit  and  read  and  write,"  he  says 
10  again,  "with  very  little  system,  and,  as  far  as  regards 
composition,  with  the  most  fragmentary  result;  para- 
graphs incompressible,  each  sentence  an  infinitely  repel- 
lent particle."  Nothing  can  be  truer;  and  the  work  of 
a  Spinoza  or  Kant,  of  the  men  who  stand  as  great  philo- 
15  sophical  writers,  does  not  proceed  in  this  wise. 

Some  people  will  tell  you  that  Emerson's  poetry,  in- 
deed,  is  too  abstract,   and  his  philosophy  too  vague, 
but  that  his  best  work  is  his  English  Traits.    The  Eng- 
lish Traits  are  beyond  question  very  pleasant  reading. 
20  It  is  easy  to  praise  them,  easy  to  commend  the  author  of 
them.    But  I  insist  on  always  trying  Emerson's  work  by 
the  highest  standards.     I  esteem  him  too  much  to  try 
his  work  by  any  other.    Tried  by  the  highest  standards, 
and  compared  with  the  work  of  the  excellent  markers 
25  and  recorders  of  the  traits  of  human  life, — of  writers  like 
Montaigne,  La  Bruyere,  Addison, — the  English  Traits 
will  not  stand  the  comparison.     Emerson's  observation 
has  not  the  disinterested  quality  of  the  observation  of 
these  masters.     It  is  the  observation  of  a  man  syste- 
30  matically  benevolent,  as  Hawthorne's  observation  in  Our 


EMERSON  467 

Old  Home  is  the  work  of  a  man  chagrined.  Hawthorne's 
literary  talent  is  of  the  first  order.  His  subjects  are  gen- 
erally not  to  me  subjects  of  the  highest- interest;  but  his 
literary  talent  is  of  the  first  order,  the  finest,  I  think, 
which  America  has  yet  produced, — finer,  by  much,  than  5 
Emerson's.  Yet  Our  Old  Home  is  not  a  masterpiece 
any  more  than  English  Traits.  In  neither  of  them  is  the 
observer  disinterested  enough.  The  author's  attitude 
in  each  of  these  cases  can  easily  be  understood  and  de- 
fended. Hawthorne  was  a  sensitive  man,  so  situated  in  10 
England  that  he  was  perpetually  in  contact  with  the 
British  Philistine;  and  the  British  Philistine  is  a  trying 
personage.  Emerson's  systematic  benevolence  comes 
from  what  he  himself  calls  somewhere  his  "persistent 
optimism;"  and  his  persistent  optimism  is  the  root  of  his  15 
greatness  and  the  source  of  his  charm.  But  still  let  us 
keep  our  literary  conscience  true,  and  judge  every  kind 
of  literary  work  by  the  laws  really  proper  to  it.  The 
kind  of  work  attempted  in  the  English  Traits  and  in 
Our  Old  Home  is  work  which  cannot  be  done  perfectly  20 
with  a  bias  such  as  that  given  by  Emerson's  optimism  or 
by  Hawthorne's  chagrin.  Consequently,  neither  English 
Traits  nor  Our  Old  Home  is  a  work  of  perfection  in  its 
kind. 

Not  with  the  Miltons  and  Grays,  not  with  the  Platos  25 
and  Spinozas,  not  with  the  Swifts  and  Voltaires,  not  with 
the  Montaignes  and  Addisons,  can  we  rank  Emerson. 
His  work  of  various  kinds,  when  one  compares  it  with 
the  work  done  in  a  corresponding  kind  by  these  masters, 
fails  to  stand  the  comparison.    No  man  could  see  this  30 


4^8  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

clearer  than  Emerson  himself.  It  is  hard  not  to  feel 
despondency  when  we  contemplate  our  failures  and 
shortcomings:  and  Emerson,  the  least  self-flattering  and 
the  most  modest  of  men,  saw  so  plainly  what  was  lack- 
5  ing  to  him  that  he  had  his  moments  of  despondency. 
"Alas,  my  friend,"  he  writes  in  reply  to  Carlyle,  who 
had  exhorted  him  to  creative  work, — "Alas,  my  friend, 
I  can  do  no  such  gay  thing  as  you  say.  I  do  not  belong 
to  the  poets,  but  only  to  a  low  department  of  literature, — 

10  the  reporters;  suburban  men."  He  deprecated  his 
friend's  praise;  praise  "generous  to  a  fault,"  he  calls 
it;  praise  "generous  to  the  shaming  of  me, — cold,  fas- 
tidious, ebbing  person  that  I  am.  Already  in  a  former 
letter  you  had  said  too  much  good  of  my  poor  little  arid 

15  book,  which  is  as  sand  to  my  eyes.  I  can  only  say  that 
I  heartily  wish  the  book  were  better;  and  I  must  try  and 
deserve  so  much  favor  from  the  kind  gods  by  a  bolder 
and  truer  living  in  the  months  to  come, — such  as  may 
perchance  one  day  release  and  invigorate  this  cramp 

20  hand  of  mine.  When  I  see  how  much  work  is  to  be  done; 
what  room  for  a  poet,  for  any  spiritualist,  in  this  great, 
intelligent,  sensual,  and  avaricious  America, — I  lament 
my  fumbling  fingers  and  stammering  tongue."  Again, 
as  late  as  1870,  he  writes  to  Carlyle:  "There  is  no  ex- 

25  ample  of  constancy  like  yours,  and  it  always  stings  my 
stupor  into  temporary  recovery  and  wonderful  resolution 
to  accept  the  noble  challenge.  But  'the  strong  hours 
conquer  us;'  and  I  am  the  victim  of  miscellany, — mis- 
cellany of  designs,  vast  debility,  and  procrastination." 

3°  The  forlorn  note  belonging  to  the  phrase,  "vast  de- 


EMERSON  469 

bility,"  recalls  that  saddest  and  most  discouraged  of 
writers,  the  author  of  Obermann,  Senancour,  with  whom 
Emerson  has  in  truth  a  certain  kinship.  He  has,  in  com- 
mon with  Senancour,  his  pureness,  his  passion  for  na- 
ture, his  single  eye;  and  here  we  find  him  confessing,  5 
like  Senancour,  a  sense  in  himself  of  sterility  and  im- 
potence. 

And  now  I  think  I  have  cleared  the  ground.  I  have 
given  up  to  envious  Time  as  much  of  Emerson  as  Time 
can  fairly  expect  ever  to  obtain.  We  have  not  in  Emer-  10 
son  a  great  poet,  a  great  writer,  a  great  philosophy 
maker.  His  relation  to  us  is  not  that  of  one  of  those 
personages;  yet  it  is  a  relation  of,  I  think,  even  superior 
importance.  His  relation  to  us  is  more  like  that  of  the 
Roman  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius.  Marcus  Aurelius  is  15 
not  a  great  writer,  a  great  philosophy  maker;  he  is  the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit. 
Emerson  is  the  same.  He  is  the  friend  and  aider  of  those 
who  would  live  in  the  spirit.  All  the  points  in  thinking 
which  are  necessary  for  this  purpose  he  takes;  but  he  20 
does  not  combine  them  into  a  system,  or  present  them  as 
a  regular  philosophy.  Combined  in  a  system  by  a  man 
with  the  requisite  talent  for  this  kind  of  thing,  they 
would  be  less  useful  than  as  Emerson  gives  them  to  us; 
and  the  man  with  the  talent  so  to  systematize  them  would  25 
be  less  impressive  than  Emerson.  They  do  very  well  as 
they  now  stand; — like  "bowlders,"  as  he  says; — in 
"paragraphs  incompressible,  each  sentence  an  infinitely 
repellent  particle."    In  such  sentences  his  main  points 


47°  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

recur  again  and  again,  and  become  fixed  in  the  mem- 
ory. 

We  all  know  them.  First  and  foremost,  character. 
Character  is  everything.  "  That  which  all  things  tend 
S  to  educe, — which  freedom,  cultivation,  intercourse,  revo- 
lutions, go  to  form  and  deliver, — is  character."  Char- 
acter and  self-reliance.  "Trust  thyself!  every  heart  vi- 
brates to  that  iron  string."  And  yet  we  have  our  being 
in  a  not  ourselves.     "There  is  a  power  above  and  be- 

10  hind  us,  and  we  are  the  channels  of  its  communica- 
tions." But  our  lives  must  be  pitched  higher.  "Life 
must  be  lived  on  a  higher  plane;  we  must  go  up  to  a 
higher  platform,  to  which  we  are  always  invited  to  as- 
cend; there  the  whole  scene  changes."     The  good  we 

15  need  is  forever  close  to  us,  though  we  attain  it  not.  "  On 
the  brink  of  the  waters  of  life  and  truth,  we  are  miserably 
dying."  This  good  is  close  to  us,  moreover,  in  our  daily 
life,  and  in  the  familiar,  homely  places.  "The  unre- 
mitting retention  of  simple  and  high  sentiments  in  ob- 

20  scure  duties, — that  is  the  maxim  for  us.  Let  us  be  poised 
and  wise,  and  our  own  to-day.  Let  us  treat  the  men  and 
women  well,— treat  them  as  if  they  were  real;  perhaps 
they  are.  Men  live  in  their  fancy,  like  drunkards  whose 
hands  are  too  soft  and  tremulous  for  successful  labor.    I 

25  settle  myself  ever  firmer  in  the  creed,  that  we  should  not 
postpone  and  refer  and  wish,  but  do  broad  justice  where 
we  are,  by  whomsoever  we  deal  with;  accepting  our  ac- 
tual companions  and  circumstances,  however  humble  or 
odious,  as  the  mystic  officials  to  whom  the  universe  has 

30  delegated   its   whole   pleasure   for  us.     Massachusetts, 


EMERSON  471 

Connecticut  River,  and  Boston  Bay,  you  think  paltry 
places,  and  the  ear  loves  names  of  foreign  and  classic 
topography.     But  here  we  are;  and  if  we  will  tarry  a 
little  we  may  come  to  learn  that  here  is  best.    See  to  it 
only  that  thyself  is  here."     Furthermore,  the  good  is    5 
close  to  us  all.    "I  resist  the  skepticism  of  our  education 
and  of  our  educated  men.    I  do  not  believe  that  the  dif- 
ferences of  opinion  and  character  in  men  are  organic. 
I  do  not  recognize,  besides  the  class  of  the  good  and  the 
wise,  a  permanent  class  of  skeptics,  or  a  class  of  conser-  10 
vatives,  or  of  malignants,  or  of  materialists.     I  do  not 
believe  in  the  classes.    Every  man  has  a  call  of  the  power 
to  do    something   unique."     Exclusiveness    is    deadly. 
"The  exclusive  in  social  life  does  not  see  that  he  excludes 
himself  from  enjoyment  in  the  attempt  to  appropriate  it.  15 
The  exclusionist  in  religion  does  not  see  that  he  shuts 
the  door  of  heaven  on  himself  in  striving  to  shut  out 
others.    Treat  men  as  pawns  and  ninepins,  and  you  shall 
suffer  as  well  as  they.    If  you  leave  out  their  heart  you 
shall  lose  your  own.    The  selfish  man  suffers  more  from  20 
his  selfishness  than  he  from  whom  that  selfishness  with- 
holds some  important  benefit."     A  sound  nature  will  be 
inclined  to  refuse  ease  and  self-indulgence.     "To  live 
with  some  rigor  of  temperance,  or  some  extreme  of  gen- 
erosity, seems  to  be  an  asceticism  which  common  good-  25 
nature  would  appoint  to  those  who  are  at  ease  and  in 
plenty,  in  sign  that  they  feel  a  brotherhood  with  the 
great  multitude  of   suffering  men."    Compensation,  fi- 
lally,  is  the  great  law  of  life;  it  is  everywhere,  it  is  sure, 
and  there  is  no  escape  from  it.    This  is  that  "law  alive  y 


472  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

and  beautiful,  which  works  over  our  heads  and  under 
our  feet.  Pitiless,  it  avails  itself  of  our  success  when 
we  obey  it,  and  of  our  ruin  when  we  contravene  it. 
We  are  all  secret  believers  in  it.  It  rewards  actions 
5  after  their  nature.  The  reward  of  a  thing  well  done  is 
to  have  done  it.  The  thief  steals  from  himself,  the 
swindler  swindles  himself.  You  must  pay  at  last  your 
own  debt." 

This  is  tonic  indeed!     And  let  no  one  object  that 

10  it  is  too  general;  that  more  practical,  positive  direction 
is  what  we  mean;  that  Emerson's  optimism,  self-reli- 
ance, and  indifference  to  favorable  conditions  for  our 
life  and  growth  have  in  them  something  of  danger. 
"Trust    thyself;"    "what    attracts    my   attention    shall 

*5  have  it;"  "though  thou  shouldest  walk  the  world  over 
thou  shalt  not  be  able  to  find  a  condition  inopportune 
or  ignoble;"  "what  we  call  vulgar  society  is  that  society 
whose  poetry  is  not  yet  written,  but  which  you  shall 
presently   make   as   enviable   and   renowned   as   any." 

20  With  maxims  like  these,  we  surely,  it  may  be  said, 
run  some  risk  of  being  made  too  well  satisfied  with  our 
own  actual  self  and  state,  however  crude  and  imper- 
fect they  may  be.  "Trust  thyself?"  It  may  be  said 
that   the   common   American    or   Englishman   is   more 

25  than  enough  disposed  already  to  trust  himself.  I  often 
reply,  when  our  sectarians  are  praised  for  following 
conscience:  Our  people  are  very  good  in  following 
their  conscience;  where  they  are  not  so  good  is  in  as- 
certaining  whether   their  conscience   tells   them   right. 

30  "What   attracts   my   attention   shall   have   it?"    Well, 


EMERSON  473 

that  is  our  people's  plea  when  they  run  after  the  Salva- 
tion Army,  and  desire  Messrs.  Moody  and  Sankey. 
"  Thou  shalt  not  be  able  to  find  a  condition  inopportune 
or  ignoble?"  But  think  of  the  turn  of  the  good  people 
of  our  race  for  producing  a  life  of  hideousness  and  im-  5 
mense  ennui;  think  of  that  specimen  of  your  own  New 
England  life  which  Mr.  Howells  gives  us  in  one  of 
his  charming  stories  which  I  was  reading  lately;  think 
of  the  life  of  that  ragged  New  England  farm  in  the 
Lady  of  the  Aroostook;  think  of  Deacon  Blood,  and  10 
Aunt  Maria,  and  the  straight-backed  chairs  with  black 
horsehair  seats,  and  Ezra  Perkins  with  perfect  self- 
reliance  depositing  his  travelers  in  the  snow!  I  can 
truly  say  that  in  the  little  which  I  have  seen  of  the  life 
of  New  England,  I  am  more  struck  with  what  has  been  15 
achieved  than  with  the  crudeness  and  failure.  But  no 
doubt  there  is  still  a  great  deal  of  crudeness  also.  Your 
own  novelists  say  there  is,  and  I  suppose  they  say  true. 
In  the  New  England,  as  in  the  Old,  our  people  have  to 
learn,  I  suppose,  not  that  their  modes  of  life  are  beau-  20 
tiful  and  excellent  already;  they  have  rather  to  learn 
that  they  must  transform  them. 

To  adopt  this  line  of  objection  to  Emerson's  deliv- 
erances would,  however,  be  unjust.  In  the  first  place, 
Emerson's  points  are  in  themselves  true,  if  under-  25 
stood  in  a  certain  high  sense;  they  are  true  and  fruit- 
ful. And  the  right  work  to  be  done,  at  the  hour  when 
he  appeared,  was  to  affirm  them  generally  and  abso- 
lutely. Only  thus  could  he  break  through  the  hard 
and  fast  barrier  of  narrow,  fixed  ideas,  which  he  found  30 


474  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  PROSE 

confronting  him,  and  win  an  entrance  for  new  ideas. 
Had  he  attempted  developments  which  may  now  strike 
us  as  expedient,  he  would  have  excited  fierce  antago- 
nism, and  probably  effected  little  or  nothing.  The  time 
S  might  come  for  doing  other  work  later,  but  the  work 
which  Emerson  did  was  the  right  work  to  be  done  then. 
In  the  second  place,  strong  as  was  Emerson's  opti- 
mism, and  unconquerable  as  was  his  belief  in  a  good 
result  to  emerge  from  all  which  he  saw  going  on  around 

10  him,  no  misanthropical  satirist  ever  saw  shortcomings 
and  absurdities  more  clearly  than  he  did,  or  exposed 
them  more  courageously.  When  he  sees  "the  mean- 
ness," as  he  calls  it,  "of  American  politics,"  he  con- 
gratulates Washington  on  being  "long  already  happily 

15  dead,"  on  being  "wrapt  in  his  shroud  and  for  ever 
safe."  With  how  firm  a  touch  he  delineates  the  faults 
of  your  two  great  political  parties  of  forty  years  ago! 
The  Democrats,  he  says,  "have  not  at  heart  the  ends 
which  give  to  the  name  of  democracy  what  hope  and 

20  virtue  are  in  it.  The  spirit  of  our  American  radical- 
ism is  destructive  and  aimless;  it  is  not  loving;  it  has 
no  ulterior  and  divine  ends,  but  is  destructive  only 
out  of  hatred  and  selfishness.  On  the  other  side,  the 
conservative   party,  composed   of  the   most   moderate, 

25  able,  and  cultivated  part  of  the  population,  is  timid, 
and  merely  defensive  of  property.  It  vindicates  no 
right,  it  aspires  to  no  real  good,  it  brands  no  crime,  it 
proposes  no  generous  policy.  From  neither  party, 
when  in  power,  has  the  world  any  benefit  to  expect  in 

30  science,  art,  or  humanity,  at  all  commensurate  with  the 


EMERSON  475 

resources  of  the  nation."  Then  with  what  subtle  though 
kindly  irony  he  follows  the  gradual  withdrawal  in  New 
England,  in  the  last  half  century,  of  tender  consciences 
from  the  social  organizations, — the  bent  for  experi- 
ments such  as  that  of  Brook  Farm  and  the  like, — fol-  5 
lows  it  in  all  its  "dissidence  of  dissent  and  Protestant- 
ism of  the  Protestant  religion!"  He  even  loves  to  rally 
the  New  Englander  on  his  philanthropical  activity, 
and  to  find  his  beneficence  and  its  institutions  a  bore! 
"Your  miscellaneous  popular  charities,  the  education  10 
at  college  of  fools,  the  building  of  meetinghouses  to  the 
vain  end  to  which  many  of  these  now  stand,  alms  to  sots, 
and  the  thousandfold  relief  societies, — though  I  con- 
fess with  shame,  that  I  sometimes  succumb  and  give 
the  dollar,  yet  it  is  a  wicked  dollar,  which  by  and  by  15 
I  shall  have  the  manhood  to  withhold."  "Our  Sun- 
day schools  and  churches  and  pauper  societies  are  yokes 
to  the  neck.  We  pain  ourselves  to  please  nobody. 
There  are  natural  ways  of  arriving  at  the  same  ends  at 
which  these  aim,  but  do  not  arrive."  "Nature  does  20 
not  like  our  benevolence  or  our  learning  much  better 
than  she  likes  our  frauds  and  wars.  When  we  come 
out  of  the  caucus,  or  the  bank,  or  the  Abolition  con- 
vention, or  the  Temperance  meeting,  or  the  Transcen- 
dental club,  into  the  fields  and  woods,  she  says  to  us:  25 
'So  hot,  my  little  sir?'  " 

Yes,  truly,  his  insight  is  admirable;  his  truth  is  pre- 
cious. Yet  the  secret  of  his  effect  is  not  even  in  these; 
it  is  in  his  temper.  It  is  in  the  hopeful,  serene  beau- 
tiful temper  wherewith  these,  in  Emerson,  are  indisso-  30 


47^  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

lubly  joined;  in  which  they  work,  and  have  their  being. 
He  says  himself:  "We  judge  of  a  man's  wisdom  by 
his  hope,  knowing  that  the  perception  of  the  inexhausti- 
bleness  of  nature  is  an  immortal  youth."  If  this  be  so, 
5  how  wise  is  Emerson !  for  never  had  man  such  a  sense 
of  the  inexhaustibleness  of  nature,  and  such  hope.  It 
was  the  ground  of  his  being;  it  never  failed  him.  Even 
when  he  is  sadly  avowing  the  imperfection  of  his  literary 
power  and  resources,  lamenting  his  fumbling  fingers  and 

10  stammering  tongue,  he  adds:  "Yet,  as  I  tell  you,  I  am 
very  easy  in  my  mind  and  never  dream  of  suicide. 
My  whole  philosophy,  which  is  very  real,  teaches  ac- 
quiescence and  optimism.  Sure  I  am  that  the  right 
word  will  be  spoken,  though  I  cut  out  my  tongue."    In 

15  his  old  age,  with  friends  dying  and  life  failing,  his  note 
of  cheerful,  forward-looking  hope  is  still  the  same  "A 
multitude  of  young  men  are  growing  up  here  of  high 
promise,  and  I  compare  gladly  the  social  poverty  of 
my  youth  with  the  power  on  which  these  draw."    His 

20  abiding  word  for  us,  the  word  by  which  being  dead  he 
yet  speaks  to  us,  is  this:  "That  which  befits  us,  em- 
bosomed in  beauty  and  wonder  as  we  are,  is  cheer- 
fulness and  courage,  and  the  endeavor  to  realize  our 
aspirations.     Shall  not  the  heart,  which  has  received  so 

25  much,  trust  the  Power  by  which  it  lives?" 

One  can  scarcely  overrate  the  importance  of  thus 
holding  fast  to  happiness  and  hope.  It  gives  to  Emer- 
son's work  an  invaluable  virtue.  As  Wordsworth's 
poetry  is,  in  my  judgment,  the  most  important  work 

30  done   in   verse,   in   our   language,   during   the   present 


EMERSON  477 

century,  so  Emerson's  Essays  are,  I  think,  the  most 
important  work  done  in  prose.  His  work  is  more 
important  than  Carlyle's.  Let  us  be  just  to  Carlyle, 
provoking  though  he  often  is.  Not  only  has  he  that 
genius  of  his  which  makes  Emerson  say  truly  of  his  5 
letters,  that  "they  savor  always  of  eternity."  More 
than  this  may  be  said  of  him.  The  scope  and  upshot 
of  his  teaching  are  true;  "his  guiding  genius,"  to  quote 
Emerson  again,  is  really  "his  moral  sense,  his  percep- 
tion of  the  sole  importance  of  truth  and  justice."  But  10 
consider  Carlyle's  temper,  as  we  have  been  consider- 
ing Emerson's!  take  his  own  account  of  it!  "Per- 
haps London  is  the  proper  place  for  me  after  all,  seeing 
all  places  are  improper:  who  knows?  Meanwhile,  I 
lead  a  most  dyspeptic,  solitary,  self-shrouded  life;  con-  15 
suming,  if  possible  in  silence,  my  considerable  daily  al- 
lotment of  pain;  glad  when  any  strength  is  left  in  me  for 
writing,  which  is  the  only  use  I  can  see  in  myself, — too 
rare  a  case  of  late.  The  ground  of  my  existence  is  black 
as  death;  too  black,  when  all  void  too;  but  at  times  there  20 
paint  themselves  on  it  pictures  of  gold,  and  rainbow, 
and  lightning;  all  the  brighter  for  the  black  ground,  I 
suppose.  Withal,  I  am  very  much  of  a  fool."  No,  not 
a  fool,  but  turbid  and  morbid,  willful  and  perverse. 
"We  judge  of  a  man's  wisdom  by  his  hope."  25 

Carlyle's  perverse  attitude  towards  happiness  cuts 
him  off  from  hope.  He  fiercely  attacks  the  desire 
for  happiness;  his  grand  point  in  Sartor,  his  secret 
in  which  the  soul  may  find  rest,  is  that  one  shall  cease 
to  desire  happiness,  that  one  should  learn  to  say  to  30 


47S  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

oneself:  "What  if  thou  wert  born  and  predestined 
not  to  be  happy,  but  to  be  unhappy!"  He  is  wrong; 
Saint  Augustine  is  the  better  philosopher,  who  says: 
"Act  we  must  in  pursuance  of  what  gives  us  most  de- 
5  light."  Epictetus  and  Augustine  can  be  severe  mor- 
alists enough;  but  both  of  them  know  and  frankly  say 
that  the  desire  for  happiness  is  the  root  and  ground 
of  man's  being.  Tell  him  and  show  him  that  he  places 
his  happiness  wrong,  that  he  seeks  for  delight  where 

10  delight  will  never  be  really  found;  then  you  illumine 
and  further  him.  But  you  only  confuse  him  by  tell- 
ing him  to  cease  to  desire  happiness:  and  you  will 
not  tell  him  this  unless  you  are  already  confused  your- 
self. 

15  Carlyle  preached  the  dignity  of  labor,  the  necessity 
of  righteousness,  the  love  of  veracity,  the  hatred  of 
shams.  He  is  said  by  many  people  to  be  a  great  teacher, 
a  great  helper  for  us,  because  he  does  so.  But  what 
is  the  due  and  eternal  result  of  labor,  righteousness, 

20  veracity? — Happiness.  And  how  are  we  drawn  to 
them  by  one  who,  instead  of  making  us  feel  that  with 
them  is  happiness,  tells  us  that  perhaps  we  were  pre- 
destined not  to  be  happy  but  to  be  unhappy? 

You  will  find,  in  especial,  many  earnest  preachers 

25  of  our  popular  religion  to  be  fervent  in  their  praise 
and  admiration  of  Carlyle.  His  insistence  on  labor, 
righteousness,  and  veracity,  pleases  them;  his  con- 
tempt for  happiness  pleases  them  too.  I  read  the  other 
day  a  tract  against  smoking,  although  I  do  not  happen 

30  to  be  a  smoker  myself.     "Smoking,"  said  the  tract, 


EMERSON  479 

"is  liked  because  it  gives  agreeable  sensations.  Now 
it  is  a  positive  objection  to  a  thing  that  it  gives  agreeable 
sensations.  An  earnest  man  will  expressly  avoid  what 
gives  agreeable  sensations.''  Shortly  afterwards  I  was 
inspecting  a  school,  and  I  found  the  children  reading  a  5 
piece  of  poetry  on  the  common  theme  that  we  are  here 
to-day  and  gone  to-morrow.  I  shall  soon  be  gone,  the 
speaker  in  this  poem  was  made  to  say, — 

"  And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go, 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  dreary  place,  10 

And  my  life  is  getting  low." 

How  usual  a  language  of  popular  religion  that  is,  on  our 
side  of  the  Atlantic  at  any  rate!  But  then  our  popular 
religion,  in  disparaging  happiness  here  below,  knows 
very  well  what  it  is  after.  It  has  its  eye  on  a  happiness  15 
in  a  future  life  above  the  clouds,  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
to  be  won  by  disliking  and  rejecting  happiness  here  on 
earth.  And  so  long  as  this  ideal  stands  fast,  it  is  very 
well.  But  for  very  many  it  now  stands  fast  no  longer; 
for  Carlyle,  at  any  rate,  it  had  failed  and  vanished.  20 
Happiness  in  labor,  righteousness,  and  veracity, — in  the 
life  of  the  spirit, — here  was  a  gospel  still  for  Carlyle  to 
preach,  and  to  help  others  by  preaching.  But  he  baffled 
them  and  himself  by  preferring  the  paradox  that  we 
are  not  born  for  happiness  at  all.  25 

Happiness  in  labor,  righteousness,  and  veracity;  in 
all  the  life  of  the  spirit;  happiness  and  eternal  hope; — 
that  was  Emerson's  gospel.  I  hear  it  said  that  Em- 
erson was  too  sanguine;   that  the  actual  generation  in 


480  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   PROSE 

America  is  not  turning  out  so  well  as  he  expected. 
Very  likely  he  was  too  sanguine  as  to  the  near  future;  in 
this  country  it  is  difficult  not  to  be  too  sanguine.  Very 
possibly  the  present  generation  may  prove  unworthy  of 
5  his  high  hopes;  even  several  generations  succeeding  this 
may  prove  unworthy  of  them.  But  by  his  conviction 
that  in  the  life  of  the  spirit  is  happiness,  and  by  his  hope 
that  this  life  of  the  spirit  will  come  more  and  more  to  be 
sanely  understood,  and  to  prevail,  and  to  work  for  hap- 

10  piness, — by  this  conviction  and  hope  Emerson  was  great, 
and  he  will  surely  prove  in  the  end  to  have  been  right  in 
them.  In  this  country  it  is  difficult,  as  I  said,  not  to 
be  sanguine.  Very  many  of  your  writers  are  over- 
sanguine,  and  on  the  wrong  grounds.     But  you  have 

15  two  men  who  in  what  they  have  written  show  their 
sanguineness  in  a  line  where  courage  and  hope  are 
just,  where  they  are  also  infinitely  important,  but  where 
they  are  not  easy.  The  two  men  are  Franklin  and 
Emerson.1    These  two  are,  I  think,  the  most  distinc- 


20  1  I  found  with  pleasure  that  this  conjunction  of  Emerson's 
name  with  Franklin's  had  already  occurred  to  an  accomplished 
writer  and  delightful  man,  a  friend  of  Emerson,  left  almost  the 
sole  survivor,  alas  !  of  the  famous  literary  generation  of  Boston, — 
Dr.   Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.     Dr.   Holmes  has  kindly  allowed 

25  me  to  print  here  the  ingenious  and  interesting  lines,  hitherto  un- 
published, in  which  he  speaks  of  Emerson  thus  : — 

"Where  in  the  realm  of  thought,  whose  air  is  song, 
Does  he,  the  Buddha  of  the  West,  belong  ? 
He  seems  a  winged  Franklin,  sweetly  wise, 
30  Born  to  unlock  the  secret  of  the  skies ; 


EMERSON  481 

tively  and  honorably  American  of  your  writers;  they  are 
the  most  original  and  the  most  valuable.  Wise  men 
everywhere  know  that  we  must  keep  up  our  courage  and 
hope;  they  know  that  hope  is,  as  Wordsworth  well 
says,—  5 

"  The  paramount  duty  which  heaven  lays, 
For  its  own  honor,  on  man's  suffering  heart." 

But  the  very  word  duty  points  to  an  effort  and  a  struggle 
to  maintain  our  hope  unbroken.  Franklin  and  Emer- 
son maintained  theirs  with  a  convincing  ease,  an  in-  10 
spiring  joy.  Franklin's  confidence  in  the  happiness 
with  which  industry,  honesty,  and  economy  will  crown 
the  life  of  this  work-day  world,  is  such  that  he  runs 
over  with  felicity.  With  a  like  felicity  does  Emerson 
run  over,  when  he  contemplates  the  happiness  eternally  15 
attached  to  the  true  life  in  the  spirit.  You  cannot  prize 
him  too  much,  nor  heed  him  too  diligently.  He  has 
lessons  for  both  the  branches  of  our  race.  I  figure  him 
to  my  mind  as  visible  upon  earth  still,  as  still  stand- 
ing here  by  Boston  Bay,  or  at  his  own  Concord,  in  his  20 
habit  as  he  lived,  but  of  heightened  stature  and  shining 
feature,  with  one  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  East, 
to  our  laden  and  laboring  England;  the  other  towards 

And  which  the  nobler  calling — if  'tis  fair 
Terrestrial  with  celestial  to  compare —  25 

To  guide  the  storm-cloud's  elemental  flame, 
Or  walk  the  chambers  whence  the  lightning  came 
Amidst  the  sources  of  its  subtile  fire, 
And  steal  their  effluence  for  his  lips  and  lyre?" 
Prose — 31 


4^2  NINETEENTH   CENTURY   PROSE 

the  ever-growing  West,  to  his  own  dearly-loved  America, 
— "great,  intelligent,  sensual,  avaricious  America."  To 
us  he  shows  for  guidance  his  lucid  freedom,  his  cheer- 
fulness and  hope;  to  you  his  dignity,  delicacy,  serenity, 
5  elevation. 


NOTES 

The  heavy  marginal  figures  stand  for  page,  and  the  lighter  one*  for  lint. 

THE  ENGLISH  NOVELISTS 

The  lectures  of  the  series,  The  English  Comic  Writers,  were 
delivered  at  the  Surrey  Institution  in  1818. 

10  :  2.  Mine  to  read.      See  Gray's  Letters,  April,  1742. 

12  :  I.  Fielding,  in  speaking.  See  Joseph  Andrews,  Book 
III,  Chap.  1. 

12  :  29.  Blackstone  or  De  Lolme.     Writers  on  English  law. 

13  :  24.  Don  Quixote.  Famous  Spanish  novel  by  Cervantes, 
published  1605-1615. 

17  :  8.  Still  prompts.    Pope,  Essay  on  Man,  IV,  3. 

19  :  3.  Guzman  d'Alfarache.  A  novel  by  Mateo  Aleman, 
1599. 

19  :  17.  Gil  Bias.     A  novel  by  Le  Sage,  17 15-1735. 

19  :  22.  Lazarillo  de  Tonnes.  Probably  by  Diego  Hurtado 
de  Mendoza,  1553. 

28  :  19.  Intus  et  in  cute.  "Within  and  in  the  skin."  Per- 
sius,  Satires,  III,  30. 

33  :  18.  Dr.  Johnson.  See  Hill's  edition  of  Boswell's  Lijeof 
Johnson,  II,  174. 

35  :  8.  Books  are  a  real  world.  Wordsworth,  Personal 
Talk,  stanza  3. 

36  :  19.  Goldsmith  ....  should  call  him  "  a  dull 
fellow."     See  Hill's  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  II,  222. 

47  :  1.  Quod  sic  mihi  ostendis.  Paraphrased  or  misquoted 
from  Horace,  Ars  Poetica,  line  188:  "  Quodcunque  ostendis 
mihi  sic  incredulus  odi."     Freely  translated  by  Howes  this  runs: 

483 


4^4  NOTES 

'•Much  that  were  only  passing  strange  if  heard;  |  When  seen,  re- 
volted sense  declares  absurd." 

48  :  30.  Author  of  Caleb  Williams.  William  Godwin,  1756- 
1836. 

49  :  16.  His  Chamber.  Faerie  Queene,  Book  II,  Canto  IX, 
stanza  50. 

Other  explanatory  comments  on  this  essay  may  be  found 
in  Vol.  VIII  of  The  Collected  Works  of  William  J/azlitt,  edited 
by  A.  R.  Waller  and  Arnold  Glover. 

BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON 

The  original  of  this  essay  appeared  in  Eraser's  Magazine,  May, 
1832.    The  references  are  to  G.  B.  Hill's  edition  of  Boswell's  Life. 

62  :  3.  Io-pseans.     'Iii  Uaiiv,  "  Hail  Apollo!" 

65  :  18.  Ma  foi,  etc.  "Faith,  sir,  our  happiness  depends 
upon  the  way  our  blood  circulates." 

68  :  2.  Four  Books.  Tyers'  Biographical  Sketch ;  Mrs. 
Piozzi's  Anecdotes ;  Hawkin's  Life;  Murphy's  Essay. 

68  :  6.  Sextum  quid.     Sixth  something. 

78  :  12.  Odyssey.  See  Boswell's  Advertisement  to  the  Sec- 
ond Edition,  Life,  I,  13. 

79  :  12.  Waste  fantasy.  Ascribed  in  Latter-Day  Pamphlets 
to  Novalis. 

81  :  27.  Import  of  Reality.  See  Carlyle's  essay  on  Biog- 
raphy. 

85  :  2.  Smolletts  and  Belshams.  Smollett  wrote  a  History 
of  England,  and  Belsham  (175  2-1827)  a  History  of  Great  Britain 
to  the  Conclusion  of  the  Peace  of  Amiens  in  1802. 

87  :  13.  .ffineas  Sylvius.  Pope  Pius  II  (1405-1464),  who, 
when  a  young  man,  visited  Scotland. 

89  :  28.  Taking  notes.  See  Burns,  On  the  Late  Captain 
Grose's  Peregrinations  thro1  Scotland. 

91  »  18.   Iron  leaf.     Past  and  Present,  Book  III,  Chap.  X. 

92:  20.  NatUS  sum,  etc.  "I  was  born;  I  hungered;  I 
sought  [food] ;  now,  having  taken  my  fill,  I  rest." 


BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  485 

100  !  9.  A  chacun,  etc.  "  To  each  according  to  his  capac- 
ity ;  to  each  capacity  according  to  its  works." 

103  :  24.  Translation.  Johnson  translated  Pope's  Messiah 
into  Latin. 

107  :  15.  Scrogginses.  Scroggin  is  the  poet  in  Goldsmith's 
poem:  A  Description  of  an  Author'' s  Bedchamber. 

107  :  28.  Carpe  diem.  "  Seize  the  day,"  Horace,  Odes,  I, 
XI,  8. 

110:  11.  Lord  of  the  lion  heart,  etc.  Smollett,  Ode  to 
Independence. 

Ill  :  12.  Maecenasship.  Maecenas  was  a  wealthy  Roman, 
the  friend  of  Horace  and  Virgil.  He  is  frequently  referred  to  as 
the  type  of  literary  patron. 

114  :  1.  Shepherd  in  Virgil.     Eclogues,  VIII,  43-45. 

126  :  23.  Impransus.     "  Dinnerless." 

129  :  4.  He  said,  a  man  might  live.  Boswell,  Life,  I,  122. 
The  speaker  is  not  Johnson,  as  Carlyle  implies,  but  an  Irish 
painter. 

129  :  15.  On  another  occasion.  Johnsonian  Miscellanies, 
(ed.  Hill),  I,  180. 

132  :  17.   Vomissement,  etc.     "Devil's  vomit." 

133  :  I.  Gooseberry-fool.      See  Goldsmith's  Retaliation. 

134  :  1.  Res  gestae.     "Affairs  transacted." 

134  :  3.  Stat  Parvi,  etc.  "There  remains  the  shadow  of  a 
little  name." 

146  :  19.  Salve  magna  parens!  "Hail,  great  mother,"  Vir- 
gil, Georgics,  II,  173. 

147  :  1 .  Sunday,  October  18,  1767.  See  Johnsonian  Mis 
cellanies,  I,  45. 

147  :  27.  A  less  capable  reporter,  i.  e.,  Croker.  See  Life, 
IV,  430. 

148  :  10.  Moonlight  of  memory.  Froude,  Carlyle  in  Lon- 
don, I,  17. 

149  :  20.  His  rusty  brown  morning  suit.     Life,  II,  465. 
149  :  27.  A  gentleman   who.     Johnsonian  Miscellanies,  II, 

259- 


486  NOTES 

152  :  1 8.  Acerrimi  ingenii,  etc.  "Of  keenest  intelligence 
and  of  little  learning."     Life,  II,  465. 

152  :  27.  Editiones  Principes.     "  First  editions.1' 
152  :  27.   Monsheer    Nongtongpaw!       English    pronuncia- 
tion of  Monsieur  N 'entendfas  (Mr.  Doesn't-Understand). 

MOORE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON 

The  essay  on  Byron  first  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
June,  1831. 

166  :  24.  Jedwood  justice.  "  Hang  first  and  try  after- 
wards."    A  summary  way  of  dealing  with  border  thieves. 

172  :  16.  Longwood.  The  name  of  the  house  in  St.  Helena 
where  Napoleon  died  May  5,  1821. 

176  :  7.  Pursuits  of  Literature.  By  Thomas  James 
Mathias  (1754-1835). 

176:  12.  Hoole's  translations.  John  Hoole  (1727-1803) 
translated  Tasso,  Ariosto,  and  Metastasio. 

176:18,19.  Mala  in  se  .  .  .  mala  prohibita.  "Evils 
in  themselves     .     .     .     evils  because  prohibited." 

178  :  27.  That  most  sweet  and  graceful  passage.  Taken 
from  Human  Life,  p.  120  (Aldine  Edition). 

181  :  10,  13.  M.Jourdain  ....  M  .  Tomes,  Char- 
acters in  Moliere's  Le  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme  and  in  L1  Amour 
Medecin. 

184  :  29.  Douglas.     A  tragedy  by  John   Home  (1722-1808). 

184  :  30.  Triumphs  of  Temper.  A  poem  by  William  Hay- 
ley  (1745-1820). 

186  :  26.  Delia  Crusca.  The  pseudonym  used  by  Robert 
Merry,  a  member  of  the  school  of  sentimental  poetry  known  as 
the  Delia  Cruscan  School,  which  originally  met  in  Florence. 

186  :  28.  Chatterton's  forgeries.  The  so-called  Rowley 
poems  of  Thomas  Chatterton,  "the  marvelous  boy"  (1752-1770), 
ascribed  to  one  Thomas  Rowley. 

186  :  29.  Forgeries  of  Ireland.  This  refers  to  the  Shake- 
spearean forgeries  of  William  H.  Ireland  (1777-1835). 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON  487 

187  :  30.  The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine.  See  Words- 
worth, Excursion,  Book  1. 

188  :  20.  Tutte  le  rime,  etc.  "All  the  following  love  poems, 
all  are  for  her,  and  entirely  hers,  and  hers  only ;  for  certainly  I 
shall  never  sing  of  any  other  woman." 

189  :  1.  Manner  is  all  in  all,  etc.  Cowper,  Table  Talk 
from  which  is  also  taken  the  expression  "  creamy  smoothness," 
line  16. 

189  :  7.  Mi  cadevano,  etc.  "  They  would  fall  from  my  hands 
because  of  the  inertness,  commonness,  and  prolixity  of  the  ex- 
pressions and  of  the  verse,  not  to  mention  the  nervelessness 
of  the  thoughts.  Now  why  on  earth  should  this,  our  divine  lan- 
guage, so  virile  still,  and  energetic,  aud  fierce  in  Dante's  mouth, 
why  should  it  become  so  pithless  and  effeminate  in  tragic 
dialogue  ?  " 

192:22.  Bays.  (More correctly  Bayes.)  A  character  in  The 
Rehearsal  (1672),  a  farce  by  George  Villiers,  second  Duke  of 
Buckingham  (16271688). 

192  :  23.  Bilboa.  The  original  name  given  to  the  character 
Bayes. 

195  :  9.  Marriage  of  Figaro.  A  comedy  (1784)  by  Pierre 
Caron  de  Beaumarchais  (1732-1799),  a  famous  French  drama- 
tist. 

195  :  22.  Juvenal.  A  Roman  satirist.  See  Satire,  II,  103- 
107.  "A  mirror!  the  baggage  of  a  civil  war!  Doubtless  it 
showed  a  consummate  general  to  kill  Galba,  and  the  constancy 
of  a  great  citizen  to  pamper  his  own  skin;  to  aim  at  the  spoils 
of  the  Palace  on  the  field  of  Bedriacum  (sic)  and  to  spread  with 
his  fingers  the  bread-poultice  pressed  upon  his  face!  " 

196  :  20.  Hermogenes.     A  character  in  Jonson's  Poetaster. 

196  :  26.  Dry  den  satirized  the  Duke.  See  Absalom  and 
Achilophel,  II,  544-568. 

197  :  1.  The  Wharton  of  Pope.  See  Pope,  Moral  Essays, 
Ep.  I,  II,  180-209. 

197  :  2.  SporuS.      See    Pope,   Epistle  to  Dr.   Arbuthnot,  II, 

305-333- 


488  NOTES 


SWIFT 

This  is  the  first  lecture  in  the  series  of  lectures  entitled  The 
English  Humorists,  delivered  in  England,  Scotland,  and  America 
in  1851.  The  essay  is  here  given  without  the  full  notes  provided 
by  James  Hannay  for  the  first  edition  of  1853  and  sometimes  mis- 
taken for  Thackeray's  own  work. 

211  :  1.  Harlequin.     A  famous  comic  figure  in  pantomime. 

213  :  20.  Dr.  Wilde  of  Dublin.  The  Closing  Years  of  Dean 
Swift 's  Life  (1849)  is  tne  work  referred  to. 

214  :  9.  Fielding's  staircase  in  the  Temple.  The  two 
Inns  of  Court,  headquarters  for  barristers,  now  constitute  the 
Temple. 

215  :  6.  Opposition.  A  political  term  indicating  the  rival 
party  to  the  one  in  power. 

215  :  24.  Macheath.  The  leading  character  in  Gay's  Beg- 
gar's Opera  (1728). 

216  :  1 .  Miter  and  crosier.  Headdress  and  staff  of  church 
dignity,  in  this  case  the  deanship. 

216  :  14.  Condottieri.      Mercenaries,  therefore  plunderers. 

216  :  14.  The  Boyne.  The  battle  of  the  Boyne  between 
James  II  and  William  of  Orange  was  fought  in  Ireland,  July  1, 
1690,  and  was  won  by  the  forces  of  the  latter. 

216  :  20.  South  Sea  Bubble.  A  financial  scheme  of  the 
second  decade  of  the  eighteenth  century  to  monopolize  the  trade 
of  Spanish  South  America.  Millions  were  made  and  lost,  before 
it  burst. 

217  :  13.  Conduct  at  Copenhagen.  The  English  bom- 
barded Copenhagen  in  1807. 

220  :  6.  Gulielmus.      Latin  for  "  William." 

220:  12.  Pays  his  court  to  the  Ciceronian  majesty. 
Cicero  was  the  model  of  Latin  prose  composition. 

220  :  20.  Mild  Dorothea.  The  reference  is  from  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple's  Illness  and  Recovery  (1693). 

222  :  5.  Plates-bandes.     Borders  of  flowers  in  the  garden. 

226  :  19.  Peccavi.     "  I  have  sinned" 


LITERATURE  4^9 

228  : 3.  Abudah  in  the  Arabian  story.  A  character  in 
James  Ridley's  Tales  of  the  Genii  (1764). 

228  :  14.  Sseva  indignatio.     "  P"ierce  indignation." 

230  :  12.  Almanach  des  Gourmands.  A  famous  French 
calendar  of  "  good  cheer  "  running  to  many  editions  in  the  early 
nineteenth  century. 

230  :  13.  On  nait  rotisseur.  "One  is  born  a  cook."  Com- 
pare, "  Poets  are  born,  not  made." 

233  : 8.  Yahoos.  A  race  of  brutes  described  in  Gulliver's 
Travels. 

234:20.   Miserrimus.     "  Most  wretched." 

237  :  22.  When  on  my  sickly  couch  I  lay.  From  To 
Stella  visiting  me  in  my  sickness  (1720). 

239  :  23.  Cadenus.  The  name  Swift  gives  himself  in  his  poem 
Cadenus  and  Vanessa  (1726) ;  an  anagram  of  decanus,  "  dean." 


LITERATURE 

This  lecture  was  read  in  the  School  of  Philosophy  and  Letters 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  University  at  Dublin  in  November,  1858. 

249  :  6.  Joseph  makes  himself  known.     Genesis,  xlv. 

257  :  26.  Facit  indignatio  versus.  Paraphrased  from  Juve- 
nal, Satires,  I,  79:  Si  natura  negat,  facit  indignatio  versum, 
"  Though  nature  grudge  poetic  fire,  |  Just  indignation  will  inspire  " 
(King). 

257  :  29.  Poeta  nascitur,  non  fit.  "  The  poet  is  born,  not 
made." 

258  :  5.  Vision  of  Mirza.  An  allegorical  story  told  by  Addi- 
son in  The  Spectator,  No.  1 59. 

258 :  16.  Aristotle  .  .  .  the  magnanimous  man.  See 
The  Aicomachean  Ethics,  Book  IV,  Chap.  9. 

258  :  25.  Ki/5ei'  yaluv.  Newman  translates  this  in  the  next 
phrase.     See  Homer's  Iliad,  I,  405. 

259  :  5.  Macbeth.     See  Act  V,  sc.  3, 1.  4a 
259  :  16.  Hamlet.     See  Act  I,  sc.  2, 1.  77. 


49°  NOTES 

260  : 9.  Os  magna  sonaturum.  "  Command  of  lofty  lan- 
guage."    Horace,  Satires,  I,  4,  43. 

262  :  15.  Apollo  Belvidere.  A  famous  statue  in  the  Vati- 
can, Rome. 

262  :  28.  The  poet's  eye.  See  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
Act  V,  sc.  1, 1.  12. 

271  :  10.  Copia  verborum.  "  A  full  vocabulary."  A  subtitle 
in  Quintilian's  Institutes  of  Oratory. 

272  :  2.  Nil  molitur  inepte.  "  He  attempts  nothing  injudi- 
ciously."    Horace,  Ars  Poetica,  I,  140. 

272  :  6.  Quo  fit,  Ut  omnia,  etc.  "  Whence  it  appears  that  the 
whole  life  of  this  old  (poet)  is  as  open  to  view  as  if  it  had  been 
graven  on  a  votive  tablet."     Horace,  Satires,  II,  1,  32. 

272  :  1 1.  Otiose.     Leisurely,  therefore  tiresome. 


WORDSWORTH,  TENNYSON,  AND  BROWNING 

The  essay  on  Pure,  Ornate  and  Grotesque  Art,  first  appeared 
in  1864  in  the  National  Review. 

281  : 3.  Henry  Dunbar.  A  mystery  novel,  published  in 
1864.     It  was  written  by  Miss  Braddon  (Mrs.  John  Maxwell). 

281  :  19.  It  won't  do.  Jeffrey's  review  of  Wordsworth's  Ex- 
cursion began  with  the  words  :  "  This  will  never  do  !  " 

281  :  24.  Mr.  Carlyle  .  .  .  contradicted  it.  See  the 
last  part  of  his  essay  on  Goethe. 

284  :  25.  Disjecta  membra.     "  Scattered  parts." 

287  :  2.  Which  is  the  world  of  all  of  us.  Wordsworth, 
Prelude,  Book  XI. 

287  :  21.  The  first  conversation.  Bagehot  quotes  from  the 
Appendix  to  Carlyle's  Life  0/ Schiller,  note  C. 

292:i5.  Mr.  Arnold  .  .  .  put  forth  a  theory.  In 
the  preface  to  first  edition  of  his  poems.  Mixed  Essays,  p.  489. 

293:8.  Mrs.  Veal.  Defoe  wrote  so  matter-of-fact  an  account 
of  this  imaginary  person's  appearance  after  death,  that  many 
people  were  hoaxed  into  a  behalf  in  its  reality. 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI  49 1 

306  :  12.  The  well-known  lines.     Shelley's  The  Isle. 

311  :  -9.  Mr.  Arnold  has  justly  observed.  In  Mixed 
Essays,  p.  499. 

315  :  13.  One  of  his  characters.  Charles  Reding  in  Loss 
and  Gain,  Vol.  I,  Chap.  III. 

319  :  22.  When  Heaven  sends  sorrow.     Newman's  Warn- 

i'tgs. 

334  :  25.  Which,  be  they  what  they  may.  From  Words- 
worth's Intimations  of  Immortality,  IX. 

334  :  30.  Immersed  in  Matter.  Locke,  Human  Under- 
standing, Book  IV,  Chap.  Ill,  1,  2. 

337  :  7.  And  yet,  etc.     From  Clough's  Come,  Poet,  Come. 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 

This  essay  first  appeared  in  the  Fortnightly  Review  for  Novem- 
ber, 1869,  under  the  title,  Notes  on  Lionardo  da  Vinci. 

342  :  21.  Vasari.  A  Tuscan  painter  (1 511- 1574),  famous  as 
the  writer  of  biographies  of  Italian  artists. 

347  :  27.  Uffizii.  The  name  of  the  famous  art  gallery  in 
Florence. 

349  :  19.  Paracelsus.  A  mediaeval  German-Swiss  philoso- 
pher. 

349  :  19.  Cardan.      An  Italian  astrologer  (1 501-1576). 

351:26.  Subtilitas  naturae.      "The  refinement  of  nature." 

352  :  17.  Bizarre.     Odd. 

352  :  17.  Recherche.     Select. 

354:i5.  Ennui.     Tedium. 

354:30.  Quanto  piu,  etc.  "The  greater  the  bodily  fatigue 
that  an  art  demands,  the  more  vulgar  it  is." 

356  :  24.  Bulla.      A  locket  of  gold. 

357:21.  Belli  capelli,  etc.  "Beautiful  hair,  abundant  and 
curly." 

359  :  11.  Ambrosian  Library.  A  library  at  Milan,  founded 
in  1609. 


492  NOTES 

360  :  27.  Brera.      An  art  gallery  in  Milan. 

362  :  14.  Infelix  sum.     "  Unhappy  am  I." 

363  :  17.  Leda  or  Pomona.  In  Greek  mythology  Leda 
was  the  mother  of  Helen  and  of  Castor  and  Pollux;  Pomona  in 
Roman  mythology  was  the  goddess  of  fruit  trees. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

The  essay  was  written  for  the  Comhill  Magazine,  September, 
1871. 

375  :  20.  Carlyle.  For  quotations  and  references  see  Car- 
lyle's  essay  on  Sir  Walter  Scott  published  in  1837,  and  now 
printed  in  Vol.  VII  of  the  Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Es- 
says. 

380  :  17.  As  Pope  puts  it.  Imitations  of  Horace,  Epistle  to 
Augustus,  69-72. 

380  :  23.  Byron  .  .  .  taunted  Scott.  In  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers. 

383  :  28.  Blind  piper.       Wandering  Willie's  Tale. 

390  :  3.  Thackeray.  See  his  Rebecca  and  Rowena,  Vol.  IX, 
105  (Biographical  Ed.). 

391  :  24.  Orton.  The  name  of  the  claimant  in  the  famous 
Tichborne  case,  187 2-1 874. 

393  : 6.  Lockhart  tells  us.  See  Life  of  Scott,  Vol.  VIi, 
ch.  60,  pp.  13-14. 

396  :  2.  Strawberry  Hill.  The  "  Gothic  Castle  "  of  Horace 
Walpole. 

406  :  18.  Poem  about  Helvellyn.  From  third  stanza  of 
poem  of  that  name. 

407  :  10.  Irving  visited  Scott.  See  Irving's  Abbotsford. 
Scott  is  quoted  thus :  "  When  I  have  been  for  some  time  in  the 
rich  scenery  about  Edinburgh,  which  is  like  ornamented  garden 
land,  I  begin  to  wish  myself  back  among  my  own  honest  gray 
hills;  and  if  I  did  not  see  the  heather  at  least  once  a  year  I 
think  I  should  die." 


MACAULAY  493 

MACAULAY 

Morley's  essay  was  published  in  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
April,  1876. 

415  :  4.  Der  Einzige.     "  The  Unique." 

416  :  9.  Quintilian.  Institutes  of  Oratory,  Book  X,  Chap.  I. 
"  If  he  had  been  willing  to  restrain  rather  than  indulge  his 
genius,  what  could  that  man  not  have  done  !  " 

416  :  27.  The  Steep,  etc.      Beattie's  Minstrel,  stanza  I. 

418 :  18.  Mackintosh's  .  .  .  panegyric.  From  Mack- 
intosh's Dissertation  on  the  Progress  of  Ethical  Philosophy  (1830). 

419:8.  Style  coupe  .  .  .  soutenu.  Abrupt  style, 
elevated  style. 

420  :  26.  Emerson.      See  English  Traits. 

421  115.  In  speaking  of  Hallam.  Macaulay,  Misc.  Works, 
I,  201. 

423  :  27.  Multa  as  well  as  multum.  "  Quantity  as  well  as 
profundity." 

426  :  30.  About  Turenne.      Macaulay,  History,  Vol.  I. 

429  :  18.  Anytus  and  Meletus.     See  Plato's  Apology. 

429:27.  Semper,  ubique,  etc.  "Always,  everywhere,  and 
by  all." 

432  : 6.  Et  mon  vers,  etc.  "  My  verse,  good  or  ill,  always 
means  something." 

438  :  1 1.  Apostrophe  in  Carlyle.  French  Revolution,  Vol.  I, 
Book  5,  Chap.  7. 

440  :  5.  Falkland.  See  Clarendon's  History  of  the  Rebellion 
(ed.  Macray),  Vol.  Ill,  p.  178. 

440  :  21.  Passage  of  Burke's.  Address  to  the  British  Colo- 
nists of  North  America,  Vol.  6,  189. 

443  :  20.  "ft  fiiapbv,  etc.  "  Abominable,  and  altogether  abomi- 
nable, and  most  abominable." 

445  :  5.  Account  of  Boswell.     Misc.  Works,  I,  601. 
445:  11.  Montesquieu.     Misc.  Works,  I,  102. 

446  :  14.  Addison.     Misc.  Works,  III,  443. 
446  :  22.   rb  0-e/j.vdv.      Something  holy  or  august. 


494  NOTES 


EMERSON 


Arnold's  Emerson  was  a  lecture  first  delivered  to  a  Boston 

Audience  in  1883. 

452  :  1.  Undergraduate.  Arnold  was  at  Oxford  from  1841 
to  1845. 

452  :  12.  Oratory  at  Birmingham.  After  Newman  joined 
the  Catholic  church,  he  took  up  his  residence  at  Birmingham, 
where  he  established  the  Oratory,  an  institute  founded  in  the 
16th  century  by  St.  Philip  Neri. 

452  :  22.  St.  Mary's.  The  church  at  Oxford  where  Univer- 
sity sermons  are  preached.  Newman  was  vicar  from  1828  to 
1843. 

453  :  10.  Littlemore.  To  this  place,  near  Oxford,  Newman 
withdrew  after  resigning  his  living  at  St.  Mary's. 

454:  1.  Last  enchantments.  See  "Preface"  to  Arnold's 
Essays  in  Criticism,  1st  series. 

454  :  9.  Sentence  of  Carlyle.  See  "  Death  of  Edward  Irv- 
ing," Critical  Essays,  Vol.  V,  127. 

454  :  17.  Carlyle's  translation.      Published  in  1824. 
454:25.  Youths'    Dirge.      Wilhelm    Meister,    Book    VIII, 

Chap.  8. 

455  :  10.  Apparition  of  Emerson.  See  Lowell's  Emerson 
the  Lecturer,  Works,  I,  349. 

457  :  23.  Patience  on  a  Monument.  Twelfth  Night,  II, 
4.  "7- 

457  :  24.   Darkness  visible.     Paradise  Lost,  I,  63. 

457  :  25.  Where  ignorance  is  bliss.  Ode  on  a  Distant  Pros- 
pect of  Eton  College. 

458  :  27.  Milton.  The  words  in  the  tractate  on  Education 
(Prose  Works,  Bohn  Ed.  473)  are  "  simple,  sensuous,  and  pas- 
sionate." 

459  :  14.  Exceptional  passages.  The  first  is  from  Volun- 
taries; the  second  is  from  Sacrifice  ;  the  third  from  May-Day. 

462  :  29.  Carlyle's  devouring  eyes  .  .  .  thirsty  eyes. 
Correspondence  of  Carlyle  and  Emerson,  (3d  ed.)  I,  308 ;  I,  255. 


EMERSON  495 

463 : 2.  Description     .      .     .     Fraser.      Correspondence,  I, 

65- 

463  :  12.  John  Sterling.      Correspondence,  I,  140. 

463  :  17.   Invitation  of  Emerson.      Correspondence,    I,    199. 

465  :  25.    For  me  it  is  too  ethereal.      Correspondence,  I,  304. 

465  :  28.  Emerson's  Orations.     Correspondence,  I,  217. 

466  :  8,  9.  Lapidary  style  .  .  .  Here  I  sit,  etc.  Cor- 
respondence, I,  345;  I.  161. 

468  :  6.  Alas,  my  friend.      Correspondence,  I,  238. 

468  :  11.  Friend's  praise.      Correspondence,  I,  340,  341,  342. 

468  :  24.   There  is  no  example.      Correspondence,  II,  334. 

476  :  10.  Yet,  as  I  tell  you.      Correspondence,  I,  341. 

476  :  16.   A  multitude  Of  young  men.      Correspondence,  II, 

337- 

481  :  4.  Wordsworth  well  says.  In  sonnet  beginning : 
"  Here  pause :  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise,"  written  in 
181 1  and  found  on  page  219  of  Arnold's  selection  of  Words- 
worth's poems  published  in  the  Golden  Treasury  Series, 


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